


Rising

by ricekrispyjoints



Series: From the Ashes [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Coming Out, Complete, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discussion of dysphoria, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Long-Distance Relationship, Makeouts, Mentions Of Gender Dysphoria, Otabek is 21, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Doubt, Trans Female Character, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, Unwanted Advances, and i took great pleasure in it, bc it wouldn't be nastya if it wasn't dramatic, bc it's not a rkj fic if there's no makeouts, bc nastya takes no shit, but minor character injury, clothes make the (wo)man, discussion of medical transitioning, dramatic coming out, excessive skyping, for katsuki yuuri, girls supporting girls, i guess i should've already tagged this, mild violence, nastya is 19 in this fic, should have regular updates, so competition details are vague, sorry but i definitely threw him under the bus here, supportive skating fam, swimwear, the author knows nothing about ice skating, the utter assassination of JJ's character, this fic is finished just needs editing, transgirl!yuri plisetsky, very mild catcalling, yakov's tiny kick ass press agent, yuri's name is nastya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-02-12 07:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 61,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12954378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricekrispyjoints/pseuds/ricekrispyjoints
Summary: Please read the first part of this series, Phoenix, first!Now that Anastasiya Plisetskaya is out to her close friends, she has to learn to navigate living her public life as men's figure skating champion Yuri Plisetsky, while still feeling comfortable and safe with who she really is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HI ! here it is, the sequel that like, idk maybe 3 people care about, but this was my nanowrimo baby, so i'm very pleased to share it with you.  
> Everything is written, I'm just editing now, so you can expect fairly regular updates-- i'll aim for weekly, but i'm not making any promises because these next two weeks are Finals Hell™.  
> Special shoutout to coolhopefulbouquetturtle on tumblr for cheering me on, chatting through ideas, helping with research... you're awesome ! thank you !!
> 
> One last note : i personally am trans, but not a transgirl. if you notice anything that doesn't click, or if i do something awful like mess up a pronoun, please let me know !! i did my best 
> 
> Ok, here we go ! I hope you enjoy !

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nastya tries to settle into the new season and this balancing act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, 10k to start us off! Some of the chapters might be a little shorter than this so don't get too excited/overwhelmed lol

The first few weeks of practice of the season are rough.

Nastya hasn’t been skating like a maniac as she normally would have on the off-season, because she’s been dealing with, well, becoming Nastya.

She’s trying to figure out how much of her life is safe to live as she wants – that is, as a girl—and what she needs to do to keep her identities separate.

She’s been spending inordinate amounts of time at Viktor and Yuuri’s place, if she’s honest. She loves her apartment, but she’s testing out how it feels to be around other people who know that she’s a girl.

Nastya is there now, sitting on their couch, waiting for Otabek to connect for a Skype call.

Their relationship has been confusing lately, too.

It’s been a month since Nastya came out to Otabek, and they agreed to try a long distance, but romantic, relationship. But Nastya doesn’t really get what’s different about their time together. When they were simply friends, they would Skype, text, snap, and gossip.

Now that they’re “dating”, they Skype, text, snap, and gossip.

Sure, sometimes they get a little sappy with the “I miss you”s and Nastya might have started a count down on her phone to the first meet of the season that they might get to see each other at, but other than that, it’s all the same.

Otabek has been more than supportive with Nastya’s transition, at least. Not that Nastya ever really thought he wouldn’t, but it must be at least a little challenging to suddenly change names, pronouns, and social perceptions of someone who was your best friend. And on top of that, Otabek has to pretend like he _didn’t_ make all those changes when they’re in front of other people.

Nastya always waits to turn her video on when they Skype, just to be sure that no one is around by accident on Otabek’s end. (It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, it’s just that she’s paranoid.)

Speaking of Skype, Otabek is finally online.

 _Hey_ , his message reads. _You ready?_

Nastya replies by clicking the call button, and waits a couple rings before Otabek picks up.

“Hi Beka,” she says, smiling.

“Hi Nastya. How was practice today?”

Satisfied that there’s no one lurking in Otabek’s apartment where he lives alone, she turns on her video. “Practice was ass; I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.

“Ah, there you are,” Otabek says as her video finally loads. _Viktor and Yuuri have really got to spring for better internet,_ Nastya thinks. Sure, she could be at home and have much faster connection speeds, but then she wouldn’t get a free meal.

“Sorry practice was ass,” Otabek continues. “Want to hear what I did today? It’s very exciting, I assure you.”

“Something tells me it was boring as fuck,” Nastya laughs.

“Conditioning. All day,” he whines. “Coach didn’t even let me on the ice. Said I had to _earn_ it.”

“Ouch, what’d you do to get knocked down like that?”

“Who says I did anything?” Otabek defends.

Nastya just gives him a withering look.

“Okay, so yesterday’s practice was… bad. I was trying out some new choreo and Coach basically told me it was garbage and to redo it. I should’ve just let him choreograph everything…”

“No, you can do this!” Nastya insists. “Did he give you specific feedback, or just a general pan? Because actual feedback is something you can work with.”

“Oh, he was very specific about what he didn’t like.”

“Well then use that. Don’t let it knock you down, fight back! Mix things up!”

“I love when you get all fired up,” Otabek says distractedly.

“Not the point, Beka.”

“I know. It’s just, I spent most of my off-season coming up with that, and he hates it! I’m never going to medal like this.”

“That’s why you just have to keep pushing. Try again. Take his critiques to heart, find a new path.”

“A new path… I like that,” Otabek mumbles. “That actually gave me an idea. Hang on, I’m gonna write it down so I don’t forget.”

“Sure,” Nastya says, and leans back into the couch while Otabek scribbles something on scratch paper.

“So,” Otabek says when he’s done, “how are Viktor and Yuuri?”

“Eh, same old same old. Disgustingly married, horrifically in love.”

“Jealousy is a bad look on you, Nastya.”

“I’m not jealous of their gross relationship!”

Otabek crosses his arms, lets the silence draw out.

“You don’t get it, they’re _all over_ each other. They have sex like, twice a day. It’s insane.”

“They’re in love; you can’t fault them that. And besides, you have your own home you can go to if it’s really that bad.”

“But I… I need to spend time around people as myself, you know? Not just going to random coffee shops and talking to Yasha the barista about the latest midterm exam he’s failed.”

“Aww, you’re friends with Yasha the barista,” Otabek teases.

“He’s an idiot. An actual idiot: I don’t even know how he got into college.”

“Says the high school dropout.”

“Oi, I could’ve finished high school no problem. Or college. Just, not right now. Not when I have my career to think about.”

“Do you think you’ll go back to school when you retire?”

“What for? I’m never leaving the skating world,” Nastya says with a shrug.

“I dunno. Just, seems like school is one of those things that everyone does?”

“Meh. I think I’ve got enough going on in my life. I guess when I retire I’ll see what happens. If I need it, I’ll go back to school. Otherwise, I’m not going to do it just to say I did.”

“That’s fair I guess.”

Yuuri opens the front door of the apartment, carrying a couple bags of groceries.

“Oh, Nastya, you’re here,” Yuuri says pleasantly. He should probably just expect her at this point, though she isn’t normally here by herself.

But Viktor is out walking Makkachin, and Yuuri was grocery shopping, so whatever.

“Hey Katsudon,” she replies.

“Hello, Yuuri,” Otabek greets over the computer.

“Is that Otabek? Hello!” Yuuri calls, setting down the groceries and walking over to the couch to give a proper greeting to Otabek.

“Everything going well in Kazakhstan?” Yuuri asks.

“It’s early yet. I’ll let you know,” Otabek says seriously. “Please pass my greetings along to Viktor when he arrives, too.”

“Of course.”

Yuuri returns to the kitchen, and Nastya rolls her eyes at Otabek.

“I’ll let you get going, Nastya. I’m sure Yuuri would like a hand with dinner, and it’s late here,” Otabek says, stifling a yawn.

“If you were tired you could have just told me,” Nastya grumbles.

“Alright: I’m tired. Goodnight, Nastya. _Men seni jaqsy köremin_.”

“Wait, what’s that mean? You haven’t taught me that one.”

 Otabek just smiles and ends the call.

“Gah! Beka!” Nastya yells, though he can’t hear her anymore.

“Everything okay, Nastya?” Yuuri calls from the Kitchen.

“Beka said something in Kazakh and I don’t know what it means, and that look he gave me tells me it wasn’t good. I feel like I’ve been insulted or something.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t an insult,” Yuuri chides. “Want to come help me prepare dinner? I could use some help with the knife.”

Nastya smiles. She doesn’t really like cooking, but cutting stuff is okay, and she’s totally mooching anyway. The least she can do is be helpful.

By the time everything is ready for dinner, Viktor is back with Makkachin, and he sets the table.

“Lovely to have you join us again, Nastya-chan,” Viktor smiles.

“Why are you calling me ‘chan’?” Nastya grumbles.

“I’m practicing my Japanese! Don’t want it to get rusty just because we’re not living in Japan.”

“Calling me ‘chan’ is hardly helping you practice Japanese, _baka_. It’s tacky; cut it out.”

“ _Hai, hai!_ ” Viktor says, and Nastya rolls her eyes again.

They sit down to eat, Viktor talking about the rink, Nastya growling quietly when he dares mention her performance today.

“I’m sure Nastya is doing her best,” Yuuri says when Viktor really starts to lay into her. The tone in his voice is clear enough, and Viktor mumbles an apology and talks about his walk with Makkachin instead.

After dinner, Viktor clears the dishes, and Yuuri and Nastya head to the living room with tea for everyone.

“Nastya, I’d like to ask you something about your skating,” Yuuri says carefully.

“Okay,” Nastya says warily.

“It’s just that a lot of the _concerns_ Viktor seems to have with your skating today are the interpretation element. I’m just wondering if you’re doing okay balancing your, uh, identities with your skating.”

When Nastya says nothing, just stares into her teacup, Yuuri continues. “No one’s ever had a problem with male skaters channeling more feminine aspects for the sport. Viktor played with androgyny all the time as a younger man, and Yakov and Liliya basically told you to become a ballerina on ice, thinking of you as a boy. I don’t think it would be a bad idea if you were to let some of your natural femininity through.”

“But people are going to _know_ and—”

“I really, really don’t think they will. And if you’re concerned about it, just make sure to pick a masculine costume. Trousers and a jacket or something. The juxtaposition could be beautiful.”

Viktor comes in, grabbing his own teacup and settling in next to his husband. “Yuuri is right, Nastya. And honestly, I don’t even really think of it as femininity or masculinity on the ice. You can, if that’s easier for you to conceptualize, but for me it’s about beauty pushing through strength. You look like you’re trying to muscle your way through your dance, when that’s not what it’s about. No matter your gender, you can be beautiful on the ice.”

Nastya worries her lip a little. “I guess. I mean, I know that, theoretically. It’s just now that I’m letting myself _be_ a girl, but only in private, I just feel like it’s so obvious.”

“It’s only obvious because you know both sides, love,” Viktor says gently. “I promise you, no one we know suspects. You’re maybe even overdoing the whole toxic-masculinity thing, except for the misogyny part. And please don’t start that, even for show. I don’t want to see Mila eviscerate you.”

“I’m not going to be a misogynist just to cover my gender!” Nastya exclaims. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Yuuri shoots Viktor a look, and Viktor closes his mouth.

“What I think Viktor means, is there’s no need to completely ignore who you really are, even when you’re in public. You can give little nods to it here and there without outing yourself.”

“Thank you, Yuuri. You’ve always had a better way with words than I do,” Viktor says, kissing Yuuri briefly on the cheek.

“I’ll… think about it,” Nastya concedes.

“Good,” Yuuri says. “Now, finish your tea and get some sleep. You’ve got practice early tomorrow.”

“Yes _mom_ ,” Nastya groans.

“Love you, honey,” Yuuri laughs.

“Shut up.”

 

The next day at practice, Nastya tries to let her guard down just enough that she can get some more flow into her skating. She’s wary of Yakov’s keen eye, and Liliya’s stern glare isn’t helping either. She tries to channel her ballet, but when she feels her shoulders relax or her hips move too much, she immediately stiffens, fearing that she’s been discovered.

She flubs a jump, swears loud enough for the whole rink to pause for a second to stare, and picks herself up off the ice, all but flinging herself to the exit.

“I’m taking a break,” she yells at Yakov.

He comes over to where she’s sitting on a bench, angrily drinking water.

“Yuri, what’s going on with you?” Yakov demands. “This whole attitude, it’s just not like you. It’s like you’re fifteen again, and you’ve forgotten all your training.”

“I’m working on it,” Nastya growls.

Yakov hesitates, but then asks: “Is there anything I can do to help you get back to where you should be?”

“No,” Nastya grunts.

Yakov raises an eyebrow.

“If you don’t shape up soon, I’m siccing Viktor on you,” he warns.

 _Actually, that’s not a bad idea,_ Nastya thinks. She doesn’t reply to Yakov, just gets up and goes over to where Viktor is watching Yuuri.

“Watch that speed, Yuuri!” Viktor calls out.

“Viktor,” Nastya says.

“Ah, Yurio, what can I do for you?” Viktor says pleasantly.

They’re in public, so of course Viktor calls her Yurio. She still scrunches her face at it. “I still suck. I can’t… let go enough to be more—” she drops her voice low – “feminine, when I’m out there.”

“I noticed you were still very stiff and aggressive,” Viktor notes, “but this isn’t going to be easy. It won’t happen overnight. Just try to take it one move at a time; perhaps pick one step in particular that you’re going to make your ‘feminine’ moment. Don’t try to do it all at once.”

 _That is surprisingly good advice,_ Nastya thinks.

“Hmm,” she says, but she means _thank you._

“What if you found a quiet space off ice to practice by yourself first? Loosen up a little, then try again on the ice.”

“Sure,” Nastya agrees.

“I can grab Yuuri in a moment if you’d like his help, too.”

“No, I’ll be alright. I’m gonna… go. Find somewhere quiet, like you said,” Nastya says, and leaves Viktor.

She wanders to the conditioning studio, but Georgi is there, even though he’s retired by now.

“Oi, get out,” Nastya says.

“You don’t own this room, Yuri,” Georgi scoffs.

“Yeah well, you’re not competing anymore, geezer, so get lost.”

“I’m giving you ten minutes, because it’s my break time,” Georgi says after a moment.

She’ll take it.

“Fifteen,” she bites, just to be petty.

Once Georgi clears out, Nastya rolls her shoulders and does a few simple stretches even though she’s already warmed up.

It’s hard to do any ballet in these shoes, so she takes them off and goes in socks. They’re a bit too slippery, but it’s not worth going back to her bag and getting her ballet shoes when she’s only going to take a few minutes.

She does a few warm ups, shifting through the basic positions smoothly and easily, but she can’t help but feel like someone’s still watching.

She shakes her head, as if that will lose the sensation, and tries something a bit more complex: a few arabesques, a pirouette, some fouettés. Finally, feeling a little more comfortable, she launches into a step sequence from her routine.

It still feels bad, and from the glimpses she catches of herself in the mirror it’s not great, but it’s getting there.

She does it again, the same sequence, and picks one particular moment that she is going to let her “feminine energy” flow. It feels like when you’re trying to test if the water in the shower is too hot, and you just _know_ from the steam that it’s going to burn you, but you stick your hand in anyway.

She dips into the energy quickly, probably too quickly to really achieve anything, but she adjusts, and does it again. She isolates the step sequence to just the moment she’s chosen, and she does it two, three, four more times, until it finally starts to glow.

She lets her hair down from the ballerina bun, feels it whip around her face and shoulders. She closes her eyes, does the sequence again, letting her femininity flow more freely now. She feels her hips shift differently, her shoulders more liquid, even the angle of her elbows and wrists softens.

It feels incredible.

“Much better, Yuratchka,” Liliya calls from the doorway.

The stiffness returns _immediately_ , so fast it’s like whiplash.

_Don’t let her know, don’t let her know, don’t let her know!_

Nastya coughs, makes sure her voice is as low as she can make it. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough. Where has that been on the ice, Yuri?” she asks. “Your form has been awful since the season kicked back up.”

“I know,” Nastya grumbles. “I’m working on it. Obviously.”

“Come back out to the ice and do what you just did,” she instructs.

Reluctantly, Nastya follows, scooping her hair back up into a bun.

“Leave it,” Liliya says.

“What?”

“Leave your hair down. It helped you, did it not? Leave it down.”

Is that… too much? Will she give herself away? Viktor had long hair for years, and no one ever doubted his gender, but he still had a masculine energy to him, a certain presence.

If Nastya is going to be dancing like she just did, surely someone will notice?

As if he read her mind, Yuuri skates over to her when she gets back on the ice.

“Nastya,” he whispers. “You look like you’re panicking. Take a deep breath.”

Nastya follows Yuuri’s lead, and breathes with him.

“Good,” Yuuri says. “Can you talk to me?”

“Liliya caught me practicing in the conditioning room,” Nastya says quietly. “She saw me… being me.”

“I know you’re really worried about it, but for those who don’t know any better, you don’t look so different that you can _tell_ ,” Yuuri assures. “She just thought you were dancing. You’re safe, okay?”

Yuuri holds Nastya’s shoulders and looks directly into her eyes. “You’re safe, your secret is safe, and you’re going to be okay,” he continues.

“I’m safe, and no one knows,” Nastya whispers.

“Yes,” Yuuri confirms. “Do you think you can show me how you were dancing? Just for me. There’s no one else here, okay? Just you and me.”

Nastya runs a hand through her hair, fingers snagging on a tangle. “I… I can try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Yuuri says gently. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Nastya skates away a little to give herself space, and begins the step sequence. She keeps her eyes closed, because it’s easier to pretend that Yakov isn’t there, that Mila isn’t in the corner watching casually as she takes a breather, that the new skater Yakov took on this year, Ivan maybe?, isn’t biffing his triple flip _again_.

She doesn’t feel quite as free as she had in the studio, but it’s close. She tries it one more time, to see if she can let go just a little more, but the more she tries, the more aware of everyone around she is.

The wall comes back up, and she shakes her head. “Dammit,” she curses.

“That was _much_ better,” Yuuri says, skating back over to join her. “I know it was hard, but you did it. Your skating looked so much freer and more expressive. Remember, men can have emotions, too. Being expressive and free doesn’t automatically mean everyone will think you’re a woman.”

“I feel so… naked,” Nastya whispers.

“Yuri!” Yakov yells. “Come here, please.”

“I can imagine,” Yuuri says, smiling softly. “But you looked great, and I think Yakov liked it too. Go talk to him; I promise he won’t think you’re a girl just because of that. You’re safe.”

Nastya nods and skates over to her coach.

“That was three _hundred_ percent better,” Yakov exclaims. “Where has that been? More of that, more of that expression! Your presentation scores have always been your downfall. I want more of whatever you just did. Channel that. Run through the whole thing, please.”

Nastya doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell that she’ll be able to keep that up the whole routine, but it’s a start.

She runs through the routine, and while it’s by no means perfect, even she can tell that it’s better, warmer, more fluid. Yakov has her repeat a few sections before giving her a water break.

While she stands off to the side, Mila steps up to run through her free skate.

Nastya watches intently. How much of the way Mila moves on the ice is because she’s female? How much of it is uniquely feminine, and how much is just the nature of good ice skating?

She watches the way Mila’s wrists extend, the careful pose of her neck. In her corner, Nastya tries to copy the way Mila looks. She’s not sure if she’s achieving it, but it feels like it might be close.

 _Mila’s jumps even look feminine,_ Nastya thinks. _How does she_ do _that?_

Nastya continues watching, adjusting her own posture as she watches Mila’s spine, the powerful push of her legs across the ice, the graceful arch of her arms.

When Mila finishes her routine, Nastya is suddenly aware of other people possibly watching her and she looks around frantically.

Luckily, Yakov was watching Mila attentively, and Viktor is watching Yuuri, and Ivan is doing fuck knows what over on his end of the rink, so she thinks she’s safe.

The rest of practice that day is spent trying desperately to allow _Yuri_ to be feminine, without Nastya outing herself. It shouldn’t be this hard, but it’s emotionally draining and when Yakov finally dismisses her, she feels about ready to cry from relief.

She hurries off the ice, hurries home, and calls Otabek.

“Hey, beautiful,” he greets when he picks up the phone. “How’s my favorite girl?”

“God, today was horrible,” she sighs, but there’s a warmth in her chest at hearing from her boyfriend (and she’ll kill anyone who says this, but she loves the pet names Otabek gives her).

“What happened?”

Nastya tells him what happened at practice, and she’s disgusted to find that she’s crying about it.

“I know that this is the right thing, to not come out yet, but _god_ , it’s so hard, Beka,” she sniffles.

“I’m sure it’s difficult, but you’re so strong, Nastya, and if you believe this is the right thing, then you just have to power through it. I do think Yuuri is right, though. No one is going to automatically know you’re a girl just because you have expression in your skating. Look at Christophe Giacometti,” Otabek suggests. “He’s very expressive, but the audience doesn’t ever doubt that he’s masculine. They won’t doubt you, either, if you don’t want them to.”

“Yeah, well Chris also has short hair and broad shoulders, so he can get away with that shit,” Nastya grumbles.

“We could give you shoulder pads in your costumes,” Otabek laughs.

“Oh my god.”

“And you could start wearing a wig and tell everyone you chopped your hair off,” Otabek continues.

“Stop,” Nastya laughs.

“Then you’d look just like Chris; problem solved, yeah?”

“Except then I’d look like _Chris_ ,” Nastya laughs again.

“Ah, yeah, I’m not a fan of that. Okay, you’ll just be you then.”

“But _which_ me?” Nastya asks.

“Whichever version you feel best presenting to the world,” Otabek says more solemnly. “You don’t have to come out until you’re ready, and until that point all you can do is be strong. And Nastya, you’re the strongest person I know.”

 “Thanks, Beka,” Nastya says, not knowing what else to say.

They chat a few more minutes until they realise how late it’s gotten, and they wish each other goodnight. 

Otabek sends her a text, a Kazakh phrase that she recognizes as whatever he said at the end of their Skype call last time. _Men seni jaqsy köremin._

She sends back a string of question marks in reply, but he never answers.

 

The next week at practice is more of the same: Nastya skates like garbage unless she is completely focused on remaining calm and relaxed and fluid. She watches Mila more, trying to copy the easy grace she seems to exude on the ice.

Even when they’re taking a lunch break, Nastya finds herself watching Mila’s posture and mannerisms, and imagines herself wearing a cute skirt with leggings like Mila gets to for practice.

Sometimes, she has to stop and reign in the jealousy that burns through her when she thinks about how lucky Mila was to be born a girl. For anyone to be born the gender they want to be, really. This double life is hard, and it’s getting harder by the day.

Nastya stands by her choice to remain in the closet, as it were, for the sake of her career as a _men’s_ figure skating champion, but she can’t help but entertain fantasies of saying “fuck it” and coming out in a blaze of social media blasts.

 

They’re about three weeks into the season, and Mila and Nastya are doing their cool downs. Nastya is mimicking Mila again, and she’s so tired she doesn’t even realise how overt she’s being about it.

Mila skids to a stop. “Alright, why are you copying me, Yuri?”

Nastya stops, too. “What? I’m not copying you,” she stutters.

“Sure, you’re just doing the exact same thing as me,” Mila says, crossing her arms. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Nastya says, trying to put as much bite as possible into it.

“You don’t scare me, little baby Ice Tiger,” Mila laughs. “Are you trying to make fun of me?”

“What? No.”

“Then why are you copying me? I’ve noticed it a couple of times, but I never seemed to catch you in the act.”

“I’m…” Nastya isn’t sure what else to say. Denial isn’t working. Partial truth, perhaps? “Yakov wants me to be more fluid, and uh, you’re a really graceful skater. I mean, your presentation scores are always high. So, I thought I’d watch you.”

“Yuuri gets good presentation scores too, but you’re not copying him.”

“Just trying to get some new input.”

“Uh huh,” Mila says, not entirely buying it, but Nastya thinks she might drop it.

“I’ll stop if it’s really bothering you,” Nastya grumbles.

“Do you have to do it off the ice, too?”

“I said I’ll stop if you don’t want me to,” Nastya repeats.

“Just… it’s weird off the ice. You don’t need to copy me in real life, too.”

“Fine.”

“Alright.”

They finish their workout in silence.

 

Not even a week later, Nastya is doing warm up stretches next to the ice, where Mila is practicing spins.

Nastya notes that even her facial expression plays into her performance; she’s seen Yuuri do this, too, so she decides to practice that.

She makes a few faces while she stretches, but soon realizes that she probably looks like an idiot. She rummages around her bag and finds a compact mirror, and opens it up.

She frowns back at her reflection, the strict pull of her hair emphasizing her strong brow and sharp jaw. She wishes she were softer, rounder. She pinches and pulls at her face. If she had her makeup on, she could contour away some of the harsher lines.

Could she get away with wearing makeup to practice? Would people notice the change? Could she explain it away? Probably not. Best to just deal with it.

 “Hey Beauty Queen,” Mila taunts from the ice. “You gonna actually skate or just look at yourself all day?”

“Fuck off, Mila,” Nastya growls.

“I could always do your makeup again, like that one time for your birthday. Make you look real pretty,” she cackles.

“I can do my own makeup, _baba_ ,” Nastya bites. As soon as it’s out of her mouth, though, she realizes her mistake.

Mila laughs. “You do your own makeup?”

“I meant _if_ I needed to wear makeup, I would do it myself. You don’t need to be anywhere near my face.”

“Sure,” Mila says.

“Fuck off,” Nastya complains. She closes the mirror, though, and decides she’ll just have to practice her expressions at home.

 

A week later, with the first qualifiers for the Grand Prix Final just over a month away, Nastya is once again in the conditioning room, trying to find the strength to be herself in front of other people.

Her routine is still spotty; she can’t consistently maintain the energy through the whole of her free skate, though her short program is almost there.

Nastya takes a break to watch Mila land a monster triple axel, the joy clear on her face. She does a little dance on the ice to celebrate.

Nastya barely even realizes she’s copying her again until Mila is skating over.

“What are you doing?”

Nastya freezes. “Nothing.”

Denial didn’t work last time, and she doubts it will work this time, but it’s worth a shot.

“Look, haven’t you gotten enough material? Why are you still copying me?”

“I’ll stop,” Nastya says instead of answering the question.

“I just want to know why,” Mila presses. “You know how to be fluid and expressive, you’re a fucking ballerino, or whatever they call boys who do ballet. Why are you watching me? I’m more like, sassy and flirty.”

“Maybe that’s what I want to incorporate,” Nastya says.

“You? Flirty and feminine? Why would you want that in your routine?”

“I can do whatever I want.”

“What’s your theme this year? Drag queen?”

 _Too fucking far,_ Nastya thinks.

“Fuck you,” Nastya spits venomously. Sure, she told Mila to fuck off rather frequently, but there was always an edge of laughter to it, a joking quality. None of that was here.

Mila at least seems to realise that something in the air has shifted.

“Whoa hey, I’m just teasing,” she says, hands up trying to placate her rinkmate.

“Well it wasn’t fucking funny.”

“I’m sorry; I took things too far,” Mila says seriously.

“You’re damn right you did. I can be flirty and feminine if I goddamn want to.” Nastya’s gaze is a thousand miles away, trying to ignore the fact that there are tears welling up in her eyes.

Mila fumbles for a moment, before she reaches out to Nastya. “Yeah, um, of course you can. You just usually aren’t. I mean, you kind of skate like you want to murder someone sometimes. But, if… If copying me helps, then go for it. I won’t tease you.”

Nastya glares at Mila, but doesn’t say anything.

“Just don’t steal my routines,” Mila adds, trying to lighten the atmosphere again. She looks worried, though, and Nastya is terrified that she just colossally messed up.

“Why would I want to steal your shitty routines,” Nastya grumbles, more for the show of returning to their usual dynamic than anything.

“Right. Of course. My shitty, medal-winning routines,” Mila smiles. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Yuri.”

 

Nastya lets herself cry when she tells Beka about it that night on Skype.

“She called me a fucking drag queen,” Nastya wails. “Am I that bad at being a girl? Or at hiding it? Or… fuck, I don’t even know which is worse.”

“Hey, you’re not a drag queen. She was out of line to say that, whether she knows or not,” Otabek tells her. “And you’re not bad at being a girl. You’re just not out, so people who don’t know about you are going to have different, erm, interpretations.”

“Which is just a nice way of saying that I’m bad at this.”

“No, you’re not. What you’re doing is really hard. You’re like a double agent, maintaining two overlapping identities. It’s not easy.”

“Why did she have to say that to me?” Nastya says, scrubbing furiously at the tears that just won’t stop falling.

“Maybe think of it this way: in front of Mila, you’re trying very hard to _not_ be a girl, so really, shouldn’t it be a good thing that Mila doesn’t think you’re very feminine? That you’re maintaining your cover well?”

“I mean, I guess? But right now, I’m trying to be more feminine in my skating, to be more expressive and open, and she basically told me that I was doing it wrong. She thinks I skate like I’m trying to murder someone. I’m supposed to be graceful and girly!”

“Women can be murderers, too,” Otabek says, cracking a smile.

“Not in the mood for jokes, Beka,” Nastya sighs.

“Sorry, babe,” Otabek says. “What do you think would help you feel better? I’d be happy to reassure you how wonderful and amazing you are, and what a beautiful and graceful young woman you are. Or how about how much I love to look at that selfie you sent me last week of that sexy little dress you bought—”

“Beka!” Nastya exclaims, blushing.

“Yes, my love?”

“Gah! Stop it! Stop being so sweet and smooth and perfect all the time!”

“But that’s all part of my charm,” Otabek smiles.

“Yeah, you charming bastard.”

“Excuse you, I am legitimate offspring.”

“You’re ridiculous, is what you are.”

“Mmm.”

They just smile at each other for a moment, and Nastya’s chest aches to hug Otabek. She’s really starting to warm up to this whole _actually dating_ thing, and not just their usual friendship.

They’ll see each other soon; they had drawn different competitions, but Yuuri is competing against Otabek at Skate America, and Nastya convinced Yakov to let her go to the competition under the guise of “scoping things out” and “finding inspiration” and most importantly, adjusting to the time zone for Skate Canada.

In the meantime, though, the wait is killing her. Long distance relationships are stupid.

“I don’t know what to do with Mila. I mean, she apologized, like she realized that she crossed a line, but I don’t know how to tell her exactly why it was a line she crossed without outing myself.”

“You don’t have to tell her then, if you don’t want to. She apologized. Do you think that’s enough? Do you feel comfortable around her?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I think you should try to move past it. She doesn’t need to know the exact reason why, just that she shouldn’t joke about the femininity issue around you. If she does it again, we can re-evaluate, but for now, I think you should forgive and forget.”

“I’ll try, I guess. Thank you, Beka. You always know what to say.”

“I do my best.”

“I know. And I just want to tell you how much that means to me. Like, you’re so important to me. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“I’ll always be there for you,” Otabek promises.

 _I love you_ , Nastya thinks.

It catches her a little off-guard, but the thought isn’t unpleasant.

No way in hell is she going to say it yet, though.

They say their goodnights, and end the call.

Nastya lies back on her bed and sighs.

 

“FUCK!” Nastya screams when she does one of the sloppiest step sequences she’s done since she was what, thirteen?

She’s wearing purple zebra striped leggings and a loose fitting, off the shoulder white t-shirt. Her hair is down, flying around her face obnoxiously.

She thought that she was at a point where the clothes, as daringly feminine as she’s willing to wear to the rink, would be helpful for getting into the mindset, but it’s just set her back ten steps.

Mila skates over.

“Little tip for being ‘flirty’ and ‘feminine’,” Mila laughs. “Screaming expletives? Not the best way to achieve either.”

“Shut up, Baba,” Nastya grumbles.

“I like the aesthetic you’re working today, though,” Mila adds. “You just need some like, smudgy black eyeliner.”

Nastya rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because makeup is what my step sequences need.”

“Hey, you never know. I think eyeliner is empowering,” Mila replies. “I have some in my bag if you change your mind.”

Nastya considers it. She really does. But wouldn’t it just make her feel even more exposed? Is her discomfort stemming from the fact that she’s only partially embracing the feminine side of things, and that she’s still trying to act like a guy?

She considers going over to Yuuri and talking with him about it; something about him has been really comforting and helpful over the past few weeks as Nastya has come into her feminine self.

But then she decides that she doesn’t want to have to keep running to Yuuri every time she doubts herself. She needs to be able to toughen up and deal with shit on her own sometimes, too. Just because she’s a girl doesn’t mean she has to be a whiny baby. She’s never been that way, and she refuses to start now.

She wishes she could take the rest of the day off. She’s feeling a little nauseous with the added scrutiny from Mila, who is now almost in-on Nastya’s true identity, but not enough that she’s actually helpful.

Instead of quitting for the rest of the day, Nastya decides that she can take a short break, at the least. Yakov is working with the newbie Ivan, so he’s distracted enough that he probably won’t notice Nastya’s absence if she’s quick enough.

She puts her guards on and steps off the ice, just wandering over to a bench and laying down on it, uncomfortable though it may be.

She closes her eyes and allows herself to daydream. She imagines Otabek is there, clad in his leather jacket and bike helmet, and he’s ready to whisk her away.

She’s wearing a light blue dress with silvery glitter details, her makeup matches perfectly, and her hair is done up in a crown braid, so it doesn’t get ruined on the bike ride.

She throws a leg over Otabek’s bike, clinging to his broad back and smiling, not a care in the world.

They drive through the city until they get to the outskirts, and Otabek takes them out onto the highway. They have no destination, it’s just the two of them and the open road.

Nastya throws her head back and laughs, deep breaths letting her take in the fresh air.

It’s a nice day dream.

It’s her ‘happy place’.

Viktor and Yuuri thought it would be a good idea for her to have a safe place to go to in her mind when she’s feeling overwhelmed. It’s how Yuuri said he often handles his anxiety, and she has to say, though she scoffed at the idea at first, she really does find it helpful.

When she feels her heart beat calm, she lets her eyes flutter back open. She squints against the fluorescent lights of the rink, and sits up from the uncomfortable metal of the bench.

Maybe she will take that eyeliner.

“Oi! Mila!” She calls out.

“Yes, my darling Yuri?” Mila smiles as she skates over to the boards.

“I’m using your eyeliner,” she tells her.

“Ha!” Mila cheers. “Let me go grab my guards and I’ll help you.”

“I can do it myself.”

Mila makes a confused face. “Sure, if you want to look like a raccoon or something.”

“No, seriously. You keep practicing. It’s just in the outside pocket, right?”

Okay, maybe Nastya has been watching Mila a little too much lately.

“Yeah. Um, good luck? If it looks shitty I’m gonna laugh at you,” Mila promises.

“Whatever, Baba.”

Nastya finds the eyeliner—charcoal instead of her usual black, but it’ll do—and heads off to the bathroom.

She goes into the men’s room, because she’s not planning on fully outing herself, thank you very much, and after a couple minutes, she’s satisfied with the look. She wishes she had mascara, since her lashes are blonde and barely visible, but the feel of the eyeliner is enough.

She does her hair in a quick braid, mostly annoyed by how it’s getting all tangled and messy from hanging loose, and leaves the bathroom.

She returns the eyeliner to Mila’s bag, and steps back out onto the ice.

“Yurio!” Viktor calls.

With an eyeroll, Nastya skates over to him.

He drops his voice low. “What’s with the eyeliner? Are you… You’re not coming out right now, are you?”

“No!” Nastya snaps. “I just… I feel like I was half-assing the femininity thing, and Mila offered the eyeliner. I think she might have been joking, but whatever. I feel better, so…”

“Alright. Just wanted to make sure everything was alright,” Viktor says sincerely.

A few years ago, Nastya would have called him a geezer and told him she didn’t need his stupid support, but Nastya is older and wiser and in uncharted territory, and honestly Viktor’s understanding and care has been invaluable.

She skates away, flipping off Mila as she passes her.

“Where did you learn to do fucking wings?” Mila calls after her, disbelieving.

“Suck it, Baba,” Nastya cackles, and launches into a step sequence that has _just_ the right amount of hip movement and sass.

Nastya kind of hates how much power her outward appearance is holding over her skating performance; she’s worried that her super masculine outfit she’s picked is going to completely derail her. Maybe she can wear makeup and try for a David Bowie kind of look, she thinks.

That’s a problem for Future-Nastya.

Skate America is nine days away, where both Yuuri and Otabek are competing; Nastya will compete at Skate Canada against JJ shortly thereafter.

Her theme this year feels a little flimsy: Yakov had suggested “passion” (perhaps as a joke, seeing as he brought it up after a particularly colorful swearing streak) and Nastya had been so caught up in her own personal turmoil of self-discovery that she had simply agreed.

Now she was stuck with it, for the rest of the season.

Her outfits, which she had chosen with help from Yuuri and Viktor, were about as masculine as you could go in figure skating, aside from Pluschenko’s muscle-man outfit.

Her short program was a black vest with some silver detailing over a white dress shirt and black pants. Her free skate was a little more interesting, with a cropped black jacket featuring red swirling patterns, a red-to-black ombre shirt underneath, and black pants.

Masculine, not flowy, not _her_.

She has to learn how to make them work.

But first, she had to learn how to skate the programs cleanly and with the right interpretation elements, or the outfit wouldn’t matter. If she can’t even do the routines when she’s feeling the most herself, there’s no way she’ll be able to do it in those stuffy, boring outfits.

After practice that day, Mila approaches Nastya.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Mila asks.

Nastya sees Yuuri eye them carefully as he walks into the locker room, but he doesn’t say anything.

Nastya looks at Mila expectantly.

“I mean this in a totally positive, simply curious way,” she says. “But why the sudden interest in like, girly stuff and makeup?”

The blood drains from Nastya’s face.

The word “fuck” is on repeat in her mind. She can’t even think of a good lie right now.

“Are you, um, are you gay? And trying to appeal more to guys? Because like, the right guy will like you as you are; you don’t have to dress differently or act differently, you know?”

Nastya is stunned. Mila thinks she’s gay? Well she’s not wrong in that Nastya likes boys, but that doesn’t make her gay, actually.

Except that Mila thinks she’s Yuri, so _Yuri_ liking boys would indeed mean that Yuri is gay.

Fuck, this is complicated.

But she definitely just provided the perfect excuse, so Nastya will take it.

She nods.

“Shit, really? First guess?” Mila smiles. “Thanks for telling me. Really, I won’t tell anyone if you’re keeping it quiet.”

“Yeah, um, quiet is better. I’m not about to go declaring my love on the ice like Viktor and Katsudon did.”

“Why not? Your theme is ‘passion’, it would totally fit,” she teases.

“Not happening.”

“Well, um, is it a recent thing? For you to realise that you’re gay?”

Nastya goes for partial truth. “I’ve always kind of known in the back of my head, but… only recently started letting myself um, _be_ myself. If that makes sense.”

Mila’s eyes are wide and she nods. “Absolutely. No, totally.”

They stand in silence for a moment too long, and Nastya fidgets. She turns to go into the locker room, but Mila’s hand darts out.

“Hey, you wanna go grab a drink or something? I’d… I’d really like to talk to someone about… all this.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it more,” Nastya says uneasily.

“No, um, about me? Like, you don’t have to, but I’d love a sounding board. For myself.”

Nastya is a little confused what Mila means, but maybe it’s a good idea to hang out with Mila. She wouldn’t say they’re _not_ friends, but Mila has always been more like an older sister than a friend to Nastya.

In any case, all of Nastya’s other friends are men; having a girl friend could be a very, very good idea.

“Yeah, okay,” Nastya says. “Meet me in ten?”

“Ten minutes? You think I can shower and get ready in ten minutes? Ugh, you’re such a man. Even with all that hair! Give me like, twenty-five.”

Nastya smiles. “Alright. Twenty-five.”

 

Once they’re both clean and ready to go, Mila links arms with Nastya and leads her to a nearby bar. It’s a fairly casual spot, the music isn’t too loud, and the drinks are a reasonable price.

They grab drinks and head to a booth.

After a long sip of her vodka cranberry, Nastya clears her throat.

“So…”

“Straight boys are awful,” Mila whines.

A laugh erupts from Nastya’s chest. “Obviously.”

“Why do I keep dating straight boys?”

“Because you’re straight?”

“Oh, honey,” Mila says, putting her hand over Nastya’s on the table. “Are you not aware of my torrid affair with Sara Crispino?”

“Your _what._ ”

“Yeah, we kind of… hook up. At like, every competition we’re both at.”

“Damn, Mila,” Nastya says, impressed. “I honestly had no idea. How did you get past her creepy thing with her brother though?”

“Honestly, it was a little weird at first, but she’s mostly grown out of it. Mickey is still kind of a moron, but I’m not a dude, so he doesn’t really see me as a threat.”

“Does he know you’re sleeping with his sister, despite not being a dude?” Nastya smirks.

“Hah, um, no. And that’s honestly for the best.”

“Definitely.”

“So, if you’ve got something going on with Sara, why are you still dating straight boys? Why are you dating at all?”

“Sara isn’t interested in long distance,” Mila grumbles.

“I can’t say I entirely blame her. I was skeptical myself, but it’s… I mean, that’s what Skype is for, right?”

“Yuri Plisetsky do you have a long-distance boyfriend?!” Mila shrieks.

 _Shit_. This was not part of the plan. Otabek is super private; and they had both agreed that they would keep it private until Nastya was ready to come out, to spare both of them coming out twice.

Okay, she can recover. She’ll say yes, that it’s private, and she’ll just have to be very, very strong and resist Mila’s sure to follow insistence that Nastya tell her who her boyfriend is.

“Yes, but it’s… I’m not out, obviously, so we’re keeping it private.”

“Who is he? What’s his name? Show me pictures!!”

“Not happening,” Nastya says, drinking her cocktail.

“Yuri you tell me this _instant_ ,” she squeals.

“No! We’re here for you and your fuckboy problems, remember?”

“But that was before I knew you had a boyfriend! Spill! What’s he like? Where’s he live? I need to _know_ , Yuri!”

 “He’s a boy. He lives far from here. He’s very nice. Now, back to—”

“Yuri,” Mila whines. “Please! I’ll be good! I won’t stalk him on social media! I need to know that he’s good enough for you!”

“You’re not _actually_ my sister, so your opinion doesn’t _actually_ matter. _I_ like him, and that’s what counts.”

“I have to protect you from fuckboys, Yuri!”

Nastya rolls her eyes. “I promise, he’s not a fuckboy.”

“But how do you _know_ ,” Mila insists.

“Trust me. I know. Viktor and Yuuri like him. That should be good enough for you.”

“Wait, why did _they_ get to meet him, but you won’t even show me a picture? Unfair, Yuri!”

“Life’s unfair, Baba.”

“So rude to your sister,” Mila sniffles. She’s faking it, but Nastya still feels a little bad.

She sends off a quick text to Otabek, telling him what happened with Mila, and is he comfortable telling her that they’re together?

Nastya herself isn’t a hundred percent certain she wants to tell Mila, but she’s definitely not doing it without Otabek’s consent.

“We’re here to talk about _you_ , dumbass. So talk,” Nastya says gruffly.

“Fine, but don’t think I’m giving up on finding your boyfriend.”

 “Ugh.” Nastya tries to kick Mila’s leg under the table, but she can’t find it.

“Okay, so I broke up with that guy, Sergei, and it just made me wonder like, what am I doing with these boys?”

“Of the ones I’ve met, they’ve all been jackasses, so I really have no idea.”

“I mean like, I don’t really enjoy their company, I feel like I have to pretend to think they’re funny or interesting.”

“Why bother dating them if you don’t even like them?”

“They’re hot.”

“That’s not a reason to date someone. That’s a reason to sleep with them.”

“And between you and me, the sex is only so-so.”

“Didn’t need to know.”

“Ugh, Yuri, what do I do?”

Nastya snorts. “Uh, stop dating fuckboys that you think have the personality of a dinner napkin? It won’t kill you to be single for a little while. You don’t have to be with someone all the time.”

“But I _like_ being in a relationship. I like the emotional support, the physical comfort…”

“Okay, but are you even getting emotional support from these douchebags?”

“No…”

“Then wouldn’t it be better to just be single? Don’t you have like, regular friends for emotional support?”

“I have a couple of friends I made back in juniors, but we’re not that close. Sara’s the closest friend I have, and she’s all the way in Italy.”

“She doesn’t have to be right next to you to be emotionally supportive. Otabek is my best friend, and he lives in fucking Kazakhstan. I get plenty of emotional support from him without him being here.”

Mila sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. I just… I don’t know how to be single. I’ve been in a relationship for most of my life since age sixteen.”

“Well then maybe take some time to figure that out,” Nastya suggests. “Katsudon didn’t date _anyone_ until Viktor. It can clearly be done.”

“And _you_ didn’t date anyone until your _mystery boyfriend_ ,” Mila teases. “C’mon, give me a name. Something.”

“No.”

“Yuri,” Mila whines.

“Mila,” Nastya whines right back. Her phone buzzes with a text from Otabek that just says _call me?_ “Hang on, I gotta make a quick phone call.”

“Fine, I’m getting another drink,” Mila says.

Nastya steps outside the bar and dials her boyfriend.

“Hey, babe,” he says when he picks up.

“Hey,” Nastya says.

“So your text was kind of confusing. Mila thinks you’re a gay man and somehow found out you’re seeing someone?”

“You know how I’ve been kind of experimenting around with being more feminine? Well she thought it was because I was trying to like, act gay or something. And then she was talking about her own relationship issues, and this is totally my fault, but I let slip that long-distance can be hard, and she was like ‘holy shit you have a boyfriend?’”

“Ah. And so you want to tell her about us?”

“I don’t know. I mean, she’s definitely going to be annoying if I don’t tell her. But like, that’s not a very good reason to tell her.”

“I agree. And last time we talked about telling people about our relationship, we had agreed that we wouldn’t say anything until after you were out.”

“I know.”

“Are you planning on coming out to Mila?” Otabek asks carefully. “Of course you can, if you feel comfortable. But I don’t want you do feel like you _have_ to.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But like, wouldn’t it be kind of nice for me to have a _girl_ friend? All my friends are dudes.”

“I think having a girl friend is great for you,” Otabek agrees. “But you can be friends with her even if you don’t want to come out to her yet. That’s still your decision.”

“I… I want to tell her. I trust her. She’s kind of like a sister to me, you know? And it’s weird if she thinks I’m a gay boy.”

“Alright. I support you, Nastya. I’ll always support you.”

“You’re amazing, Beka.”

 _I love you_ , Nastya thinks again; she can’t wait to kiss him and tell him that to his face.

“And as long as she agrees to keep our relationship quiet, you can tell her. Obviously if you’re trusting her with your gender identity, she can handle not talking about us publicly, either.”

“Yeah. I trust her. I think it’ll be okay. I’ll tell you how it goes, alright?”

“Alright. Just shoot me a text, because I’m going to sleep. Early practice tomorrow,” Otabek says.

“Sleep well _. Tätti tüster kör_ ,” Nastya says. _Sweet dreams_. Her accent is getting better, but she can still hear Otabek laugh a little.

“Thanks, Nastya.”

They hang up, and Nastya heads back inside.

Mila is back at their booth, but she’s talking to someone.

A guy in a backward snapback.

_Is she kidding?_

“Oi! Baba! Who’s this fuckboy?” Nastya asks harshly.

“You got a problem, bro?” Mr Fuckboy asks.

 _Dear god, he just called me ‘bro’._ Nastya wants to face-palm, but just barely resists the urge.

“You were taking so long, Yuri, and Pasha here bought me a drink,” Mila giggles.

“Well thanks, Pavel, but you’re no longer needed here.”

“Aww, Yuri, don’t be a party pooper,” Mila whines.

“You were literally _just_ complaining about how shitty guys are. Step away from the douche-bro, Baba.”

“I’m not a douche-bro,” Pavel complains.

Nastya rolls her eyes. “Sure you’re not. Look, we’re having a friends-only talk here, okay? So please leave.”

“Aww, Yuri, we’re friends?” Mila grins.

“Unfortunately,” Nastya grumbles.

“Okay, Pasha. Let me give you my number, and maybe we can meet up sometime, yeah?”

“Sure thing, babe,” Pavel says.

Nastya grimaces. Sure, Otabek called her ‘babe’, but they were actually in a relationship. This dude has known Mila for at most five minutes. It was a little creepy.

Pavel takes his leave once he has Mila’s number, and Nastya just stares at Mila with her arms crossed and a disapproving frown.

Mila doesn’t seem to see the problem. “What? He was cute! He bought me a drink!”

“Yeah, and then you flirted with him and gave him your number. Was he _actually_ that interesting or are you just thirsty?”

“I’m not gonna date him,” Mila tries.

Nastya isn’t buying it. “Sure. Whatever. And here I was gonna tell you about my boyfriend, but clearly you’re not listening to anything I have to say.”

“WHAT?!” Mila screeches. “No no no no!! Tell me, tell me, tell me! Please, I’ll be good!”

“Finish your drink and let’s get out of here,” Nastya says, downing the rest of her own drink.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Yes, but not here.”

“Eeee!” Mila squeals, and she chugs down the rest of her drink.

They head out of the bar, and Nastya tries to decide where they should go. Mila lives around here, she thinks, and that’s as good a place as any.

“Can we go to your apartment?” Nastya asks. “I’d rather talk somewhere… not public.”

“Ooh, Yuri Plisetsky wants to go back to my place,” Mila teases.

“Oh fuck, are you drunk? We’re not talking about this if you’re drunk.”

“You’re the one who made me chug my long island!” Mila accuses. “Besides, I’m not drunk. Just slightly tipsy. Let me get some water and I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Nastya weighs her options and decides that she’d rather get it over with, now that the idea is there.

“Fine.”

After a ten-minute walk, they arrive at Mila’s place. She has a modest, one-bedroom apartment, sparsely decorated, unless you count the laundry hanging from every available surface in the apartment as “decoration”.

“It’s all clean, I promise,” she says, though she starts snatching pieces off the back of the couch, out of the doorways, and off the door handles. She disappears into the bedroom, presumably throwing them on her bed, and returns to the main room.

“You want anything to drink?” she asks, pouring herself a glass of water.

“Nah, I’m good.”

Mila downs the first glass, refills it, and joins Nastya on the couch.

“So,” Mila prompts. “Do I get a name?”

“I’ll tell you about my boyfriend, but first I need to tell you something else. And you need to remember that I am _not out_ , and you can’t talk about _any_ of this in public. There are only… three other people who know. So you really have to keep it quiet. Can you do that?”

Mila can clearly sense how serious Nastya is, because she sits up a little straighter. “Of course, Yuri. You have my word.”

“So the first thing, is uh…” Nastya stalls. She’s never _willingly_ come out to someone; so far, it’s been out of necessity. Does she ease into it? Does she drop the bomb? “I’m… I’m not actually gay, as it were.”

“Are you bi?” Mila asks.

“I don’t think so?” Nastya says. Her sexuality has definitely played second fiddle to her gender identity. She knows she at least likes boys, because she likes Otabek, but she’s never really been attracted to much of anyone in the past.

“But you have a boyfriend,” Mila says, confused.

“I know, I’m getting there. Just… hang on. This is kind of difficult.”

Mila purses her lips, but waits patiently.

Nastya takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Okay. Um. I’m trans.”

Mila raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t speak.

“I’m a girl, Mila,” Nastya presses on.

“Oh.”

“Is that… are we cool?”

“I’m just surprised, of course we’re cool,” Mila says quickly. “Shit, but you’re in _men’s_ figure skating!”

“No kidding,” Nastya says.

“I just meant like, you’re not going to come out because of your career, right? That has to be so tough. How does that work, though? Like, would they ever allow you to compete in women’s?”

“I don’t think so. I can do quads, unlike cis women. I don’t think it would be fair.”

“Oh, Yuri, I’m sorry. That means… shit, you won’t be able to come out until you retire then! Oh, _Yuri_ ,” Mila says, and she all but throws herself across the couch to hug Nastya.

Suddenly, Mila gasps and pulls back from the hug. “Are you still Yuri? Oh gosh, this is going to get confusing, isn’t it?”

“If you can’t handle switching names, then don’t. I’d rather you don’t accidentally out me.”

“No, no, I can do it. I’ll practice. What’s your name?”

Nastya hesitates, but she knows Mila is serious. “Anastasiya.”

“Oh, it’s perfect! Can I call you Nastya then?”

“Yeah. That’s what the others call me.”

“Do I know the others? Like, can I talk about you as a girl in front of anyone else?”

“Viktor and Yuuri know,” Nastya says. “And Otabek.”

“And your boyfriend? Does he know?”

Nastya smiles. “Otabek _is_ my boyfriend.”

“Ahh!” Mila exclaims. “That’s adorable. You’re dating your best friend. You little minx!”

“How does that make me a minx?” Nastya says, confused.

“I don’t know, I just felt like calling you a minx. Oh my gosh, this is… this is so much information to process. I mean, in a good way! But still. Ah! This is so cool though, I need more gal pals.”

“Me too,” Nastya laughs.

“I’m honored to be the first girl you told, and I promise to initiate you into womanhood,” Mila says solemnly, gripping Nastya by the shoulders.

“Thanks?”

“I’m serious. If you _ever_ have questions about girl stuff, please come to me. I am a girl _guru_.”

“Alright, I’ll remember that.”

“Good! Because all those gay boys you’re friends with don’t know _shit_.”

“Otabek’s not a gay boy. Well, I mean, he’s bi, but…”

“But he’s not a girl. Mama Mila knows best.”

“You’re way too crazy to be ‘Mama’,” Nastya snorts. “More like unruly older sister.”

“Aww, you really see me as an older sister?” Mila says, clutching her chest dramatically.

Nastya is blushing, but she nods.

“Nastya! Oh my god, I could cry. This is perfect. I’ve always wanted a little sister! My older sister was a bitch to me, I just know I can do a better job than she did.”

“Thanks, Mila.”

 “OH! Wait right here,” Mila says before she sprints into the kitchen. Nastya cranes around to see what she’s doing, and finds Mila pulling some paper off her fridge.

Mila comes back to the couch, bouncing slightly on the cushions. “Okay, so I have this spa coupon, and I was kind of saving it because I didn’t know which of my sort-of friends to invite, but this is perfect! Will you go with me?”

“Uh, is it like, a girls only spa or something?”

“No, it’s just that most boys don’t like the spa. It’s all about skin care and massages and mani-pedis. Any gender can go to the spa. But it’s totally a girls’ thing. So what do you say?”

“Uh, sure?” Nastya says, not entirely sure what she just agreed to.

“Great! Ah, we should go when we come back from Skate Canada! It’d be the perfect way to relax after a nice win.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SP outfit inspo :  
> http://blog.dinoray.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/Vancouver-Olympics-Fi_Ramo4.jpg   
> FS outfit inspo :  
> https://i.pinimg.com/736x/10/d4/f9/10d4f9c6e84ac830982afcdb0225267b--figure-skating.jpg


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skate America, baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof, another 10k whopper ! thank you to those of you who have commented and kudo'd so far -- it's so nice to see that people are enjoying this story !

 In a way, having Mila in on her “secret” doesn’t change much.

It’s down to the last few days before Skate America, and then right after it is Nastya’s own competition, so she doesn’t have much time for socializing.

Even her visits to Viktor and Yuuri’s place are rare.

She still manages to talk to Otabek nearly every day, though it’s mostly sporadic texting. She spends most of her time at the rink, pushing herself to execute her routines as flawlessly as possible.

When it’s time to go to Denver for Skate America, she feels a sort of relief.

She’ll of course still be practicing when they get to Denver, but seeing Otabek in person will be beyond worth it, and maybe a change of scenery will do her some good.

When Nastya, Yuuri, and Viktor get to the hotel after an entire day of travel, Nastya basically face plants into her bed.

She’s sinking into the pillowtop comfortably when there’s a knock at her door.

“Ugh!” she grunts. “Leave me alone, Viktor!”

It’s quiet for a moment, but then she hears a muffled voice through the door. “It’s not Viktor.”

Suddenly, Nastya is wide awake. She leaps off the bed and throws open the door to see Otabek, looking similarly exhausted but with a gentle smile on his beautiful face.

“Beka!” she cries, happiness flooding her chest and bringing a matching smile to her own face.

Nastya yanks him inside and envelopes him in the tightest hug known to man.

“Hi, baby,” Otabek says, despite the stranglehold.

“I missed you, I missed you, I missed you,” Nastya murmurs into his shoulder where she’s burrowed her face.

“I missed you too,” Otabek says, rubbing her back gently.

Nastya finally loosens her grip, and Otabek places a hand on her cheek. For a moment, they just soak each other in.

They haven’t really kissed much, so Nastya is a little uncertain, but she _really_ wants to kiss Otabek, so she leans in and is pleased when he meets her halfway.

The kiss is warm and solid and reassuring that they’re really here, together, and it wasn’t just some messed up dream.

Nastya moves her lips against Otabek’s, deepening the kiss as best she knows how. She’s flying on instinct and affection, so she hopes it feels as good to Otabek as it does to her.

He doesn’t stop her or complain, so she figures it’s at least good enough.

When they break the kiss, Nastya can’t help but get a little embarrassed.

She knows she’s blushing, so she hides her face in Otabek’s shoulder again.

“Why are you hiding?” Otabek teases.

“M’not,” Nastya mumbles into his shirt.

“Sure. Want to lay down? I’m beat from the flight.”

Otabek removes his shoes and jacket, and they climb onto the bed, finding a comfortable position to cuddle in with Otabek on his back and Nastya laying on his chest.

“So, you feeling good about the competition?” Nastya asks.

Otabek sighs. “I guess. I mean, it’s the first one of the series. There’s definitely some nerves, but I think I’m about as prepared as I can be.”

“That’s good. You’re gonna skate great, Beka.”

“And how are you feeling about Skate Canada next week?”

Nastya shakes her head. “Technically, fine. It’s just… I’ve really got to work at staying loose and fluid. I’m so nervous about coming across too feminine and outing myself. It’s better than it was a few weeks ago, of course, I just…”

“Nastya, trust me: no one is going to know you’re a girl just because you skate gracefully. Plenty of very manly men have skated beautifully, and you can skate beautifully and keep your cover intact. Just remind yourself that outsiders only know what you tell them.”

“I know. Just… Keep telling me that. I need it.”

“Of course.”

“But right now, focus on yourself, alright? I’ll be fine. I have a few days still.”

“I know. And I believe in you; you’re going to be amazing as always.”

They lay quietly for a few moments, and Nastya feels herself drifting off to sleep.

“Nastya,” Otabek whispers.

“Hmm.”

“We shouldn’t sleep. It’ll just mess up our sleep schedules.”

“Mmm.”

“Nastya, stay awake.”

“Warm.”

“Don’t make me tickle you or something.”

“Try it and die, Altin.”

“Ah, see? You’re more awake now. Come on, let’s go for a walk or something.”

After a few more minutes of grumbling, they eventually get up off the bed and take a walk.

Nastya leaves her hair down, though she does have to keep smoothing it out when the wind kicks up. They’re walking close, but not daring to hold hands in case someone who recognizes them sees. It’s nice, and they’re simply chatting about the upcoming competition when a vendor at a small flower stand calls out to them.

“Hey there! Flowers for your pretty girlfriend?” the vendor asks.

They both stop awkwardly.

Otabek looks immediately to Nastya, trying to figure out how to play this.

Nastya is blushing, but in an obviously uncomfortable way. This isn’t shyness; it’s embarrassment. Maybe even fear.

“We’re not—” Otabek tries.

“No English!” Nastya cuts in, and tugs Otabek along by his shirt sleeve.

When they’re a safe distance away, Nastya squats down on the sidewalk, hugging her knees into her chest.

“Hey, deep breaths,” Otabek says, crouching down to Nastya’s level.

“I’m dressed in normal Yuri clothes, they should’nt have known, oh god, everyone knows, I’m—”

“No, hey, you’re okay. It was just one stranger.”

“But you’re always saying that no one will know until I tell them, but they _knew_ , they called me your girlfriend!”

“Well, I mean, you _are_ my girlfriend,” Otabek says softly.

Nastya looks up at him, pouting. “Not publicly.”

“No, but I think this is more a case of heteronormativity,” Otabek says. “I’m very clearly masculine, you have long hair, and we looked like a couple, so that vendor assumed you were a girl because he thinks people are by default straight.”

“We shouldn’t be seen together then,” Nastya says, though she feels a pang in her chest as she says it. She doesn’t want to have to avoid her best friend and boyfriend, but if it’s safer that way…

“We’ll do what you think is best, but I think if we just pay attention to not being quite so close physically, we’ll be fine,” Otabek says, squeezing Nastya’s shoulder gently. “Plus, at the competition, everyone knows you as Yuri Plisetsky. They have a context for you already, unlike that random stranger.”

“God, how am I going to make it through literally _years_ of this,” Nastya says, her voice getting thick with the building tears.

“I wish I could make this easier for you,” Otabek says. “Look, maybe… maybe it will get easier. You can think of being Yuri as just acting, you know? He’s not really you, just someone you play in public. Did you ever do drama in school or anything?”

Nastya shakes her head.

“Okay, well something to consider. Just… don’t give up, okay? I know it’s hard, but you’re so strong and I’ll be beside you, and Viktor and Yuuri and Mila will support you too. And if it doesn’t get any easier, then we’ll talk about other options.”

“What, like how to come out and not destroy my skating career?”

“Well, yeah. If that’s what you need to do to be happy and healthy, then it shouldn’t be ruled out. But hey, this is the choice you’ve made for now, and it’s so early. Keep trying a little longer, and if you need to talk about anything, I’m here for you.”

Nastya sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. _Disgusting_.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the hotel, okay?”

They walk back considerably farther apart than before, and they barely speak.

Otabek’s coach wants to talk with him about tomorrow’s schedule, so he drops Nastya off at her room with a hug and a forehead kiss.

“Text me if you need anything,” Otabek says.

“Thank you. Y’know, for back there. For everything.”

“Of course, Nastya. I’ll see you later, okay?”

They kiss once more, briefly, before Otabek leaves in search of his coach.

Despite the warning about ruining her sleep schedule, Nastya flops down on the bed and decides that a nap is exactly what she needs right now. She sets an alarm on her phone for what she thinks is a reasonable dinner time, and passes out.

 

Nastya’s alarm goes over an hour and forty-five minutes later, and she’s very proud to say that she only hits snooze twice before getting up.

She turns off the incessant vibrating and notices that she has a missed text from Yuuri, inviting her out to dinner with him and Viktor.

The message is just from twenty minutes ago, so she replies that she just woke up, but she’s in as long as Viktor is paying.

Nastya wants something greasy and American, but because Yuuri has to compete tomorrow, she agrees to going to a nice family restaurant that offers salads and vegetables.

“I bet this food is still like, super bad for you,” Nastya laughs.

“I don’t even want to know,” Yuuri whines.

“It’ll be fine; we’ve made do abroad before, and we’ll make do this time as well,” Viktor assures. “Besides, it’s not like you can gain ten pounds overnight or something.”

“Viktor!” Yuuri complains.

Yuuri ends up ordering something called vegetable spaghetti, which ends up being sweet potatoes and zucchini that have been grated in long spirals like pasta.

Viktor eats similarly healthy, opting for tilapia with a side of rice and seasonal vegetables.

“I have to support Yuuri’s diet, even if I’m not skating tomorrow!” he explains.

Nastya, however, isn’t competing for a week and thinks that she’s going to have just this _one_ cheat meal. She gets chicken wings as an appetizer and relishes in the ranch dressing. Her main course is a margherita flatbread pizza.

After she’s devoured the wings, she lets out a very unlady-like belch.

“Charming,” Viktor notes dryly.

“I’m a fucking delight,” Nastya confirms.

Yuuri just shakes his head.

They’ve already talked a lot about Yuuri’s routine, his fears, his hopes, what score he thinks he can expect… and he has vetoed any further conversation on the subject.

Nastya decides to tell the couple about what happened in the park earlier. There’s enough background noise that she isn’t worried someone will overhear, and thankfully Yuuri’s Russian is strong enough that she doesn’t even have to speak English. She isn’t sure how many Russian speakers there are in this restaurant, but they won’t be able to hear much anyway. And being in public will mean she has to keep her poker face up and she won’t lose it like she did earlier.

“So something weird happened in the park today,” Nastya begins.

“Oh?” Yuuri prompts.

“Yeah, um. Beka and I went for a walk, and like, we weren’t holding hands or anything like, obviously couple-y, but this flower vendor asked Beka if he wanted to buy a flower. For his, uh, ‘pretty girlfriend’,” Nastya says, making air-quotes.

“Were you trying to present as a girl?” Viktor asks quietly.

“No, and I pretty much freaked out. I’m gonna get outed, guys,” Nastya says forlornly.

“Well did the vendor recognize who you were? Should we prepare for a media blast?” Viktor asks.

“No, I don’t think so. Beka said it was probably because we looked like we were a couple, and people assume that a couple is a guy and a girl. And since Beka looks… like Beka, they just assumed I was the girl.”

“Well that’s possible,” Yuuri agrees. “And that person just got a brief glimpse of you. It doesn’t mean that everyone is going to doubt your gender.”

“That’s kind of what Beka said, too. I’m just… I dunno, nervous? Scared? Freaking out? It’s so early in the season, and I’m already cracking under the pressure.”

“Nastya,” Viktor says seriously. “This is like a brand new routine, okay? You’re still learning the steps, there are new technical elements, and your rhythm hasn’t synched yet. But you’re an amazing performer when you finally put everything together. For as long as you need to keep up the act, I have every confidence that you will pull it off.”

“Exactly,” Yuuri agrees. “You’re in the adjustment period right now, but once you settle in, you’ll be a professional and no one will know the difference.”

“That’s… what Beka said too.”

“Well I think he was absolutely right,” Viktor says. “And if all three of us think that, then it must be true.”

“Oh yeah, we’ve got a real brain trust going around here,” Nastya teases.

“Hey, I have a college degree!” Yuuri says.

“And what field is that in again?” Viktor laughs.

“I have a _minor_ in _psychology_ ,” Yuuri says, sitting up straighter. “That, my friends, is a _science_.”

“A loser science,” Nastya says.

“My Yuuri is very smart,” Viktor says, giving his husband a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nastya says. She has no right to mock a psychology degree when she herself is a high school dropout, but it’s still fun to rag on Yuuri. He’s such an easy target, after all.

Viktor had finished high school, but only just; he definitely hadn’t been on the honor roll.

“Anyway, I think I just need to toughen up, y’know? Gonna be so masculine even lesbians will want me.”

Viktor and Yuuri exchange a look that says, “I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

“Gonna be so manly, maybe I’ll grow a fucking mustache.”

“Dear _god_ do not grow a mustache,” Viktor laughs. “It would look horrible! With your wispy blond hair? No, that would be worse than no facial hair at all. No mustache, Nastya.”

“You’re not my real dad!” Nastya laughs. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

The three of them are practically in hysterics, so of course this is when the waitress decides to check on them. At least Nastya hadn’t just shoved a huge bit into her mouth.

“Everything tasting good?” she asks, a customer service smile plastered on her face.

“Yes, it’s wonderful, thank you,” Yuuri says politely. His English is by far the best of the three of them, so the two Russians usually make him speak for them when they can get away with it.

They finish their meals happily, Nastya and Yuuri both successfully distracted from their own thoughts.

Sometimes, Viktor being a goofball was a blessing.

They walk back to the hotel and retire to their rooms. Nastya texts Otabek that dinner made her feel a lot better.

From: **Nastya**

Sorry for the panic earlier, I’m doing fine now. Viktor and Katsudon basically told me the same thing that u did. Maybe with 3 people saying it, I’ll actually believe it

 

From: **Beka**

I’m glad to hear it ❤

 

From: **Nastya**

Sleep well, and I’ll see u tomorrow. Ready to kick some ass!! ^3^

 

From: **Beka**

Gnight Nastya

 

From: **Nastya**

Gnight Beka

 

The next day starts early. Nastya does some stretching and warming up with the competitors, but she doesn’t take the ice out of courtesy.

She watches Otabek warm up from a distance, trying not to hover too much. He looks determined and strong, and Nastya is excited to see his short program today.

Yuuri looks nervous, as he always does. He’ll settle down right before showtime, though, like he always does.

Leo de la Iglesia and Emil Nekola are here, and there’s a couple of new-comers that Nastya doesn’t know, but she’s confident that Otabek and Yuuri will take the podium.

She finds her seat in the stands when the other spectators begin to enter the arena.

She pulls out her phone to kill time, scrolling through old texts with Otabek mostly. She comes across a message from a couple weeks ago that was in Kazakh that Otabek never translated for her. She screenshots the text to make it easier to find and resolves to ask him about it later. Finally, the competition begins. After all the announcements are made, Emil Nekola steps onto the ice, having had the bad luck to have drawn first.

Soon, his music starts, and Nastya watches somewhat disinterestedly. She recognizes that Emil’s skating is good, and he’s certainly improved since the first time she saw him compete, but she’s never been wowed by him.

Emil only does two quads, and his footwork seems just slightly lethargic, and earns him a suitable but lackluster score from what he’s put up in past seasons. It’s the first competition of the series; there’s bound to still be issues, Nastya supposes.

Next up is a new-comer, an Argentinian skater named Mateo Ruiz, and he makes a good showing. He gets a little ambitious in the second half and falls out of a quad loop, but the program says he’s only sixteen. His music was beautiful, and Nastya likes the way he spins. Definitely has potential.

His score is one point higher than Emil’s, and Nastya finds herself clapping in admiration.

Yuuri is up next, and with his theme of “nostalgia”, everyone thinks this is the season he’s finally going to retire. Nastya is about eighty percent certain that’s just a rumor, but Yuuri has threatened retirement before, so what does she know?

The song is “At Last” by Etta James, and Nastya could gag for how sappy Viktor looks from the side boards. She’s seen the routine before countless times, but there’s always an extra element in the heat of the competition that brings out the best in Yuuri.

He’s wearing an ombré jump suit that starts as a blue that’s almost purple and fades into black. It’s adorned with dozens of crystals that catch the light as he moves, fluid like water.

The whole theme of nostalgia has Nastya thinking of the first time she met Yuuri: crying in a bathroom stall, a wreck of a person.

The man on the ice today is a far cry from that mess, and Nastya finds herself feeling proud of him. He’s become a sort of a mentor to Nastya over the past three years, and Nastya is glad to see him skate well.

That’s not to say that she won’t crush him when they compete against each other, but that’s nothing personal.

Other than a slight over-rotation on one of his triples, Yuuri skates beautifully. His score is a full sixteen points ahead of Mateo, placing him firmly in the lead.

Nastya claps earnestly, and even offers a little whistle as congratulations.

Yuuri hugs Viktor in the Kiss and Cry, and then finds Nastya in the stands and waves at her with a smile. She pretends that she hates the attention, but the corners of her mouth are upturned despite her attempt at a scowl.

Up next is Leo de la Iglesia, whose outfit reminds Nastya of a hotel bellhop minus the little hat.

His music is a pop song, and Nastya can’t remember what his theme is, but he looks like he’s having a good time out on the ice. This is his home turf, after all, and he seems to have a little extra energy. His jumps seem higher than Nastya remembers, and though he steps out once, he has a strong performance.

It’s nowhere near Yuuri’s score, but he takes an eight-point lead over Mateo and settles into second place, eight points behind Yuuri.

Another new-comer follows, and he’s not nearly as impressive as Mateo had been. His name is Arnulf Sørensen, an eighteen-year-old from Denmark with unfortunate dental genes and stringy blond hair.

Nastya’s hair is much better looking, if she says so herself.

Arnulf has chosen the theme “freedom”, according to the program booklet, but nothing about poor Arnulf’s performance looks very free. He puts a hand down after his first jump, and takes a moment to get back into the flow of his step sequence.

She had watched him during warm ups, and he hadn’t looked any better. Maybe it’s just nerves, or maybe he’s actually a wooden puppet. In any case, he’s got Nastya beat for lack of gracefullness.

His triple-double combination turns into a double-single, and Nastya just sighs. She skated better than this in juniors. Who let this guy make his senior debut?

Nastya doesn’t even pay attention to his scores when they come in, because Otabek is finally next, and he’s just taken off his warm-up sweats and reveals a gorgeous golden top. It cuts into a deep vee in the front and has split sleeves that come together in a black cuff at his wrists.

The color complements Otabek’s deep complexion, and Nastya loves how it fits with his theme of “trust”: trust is open and free, flowing like the loose fabric, but it’s secure and isn’t going anywhere, like the cuffs. It’s breathtaking.

Nastya had heard the music a couple of times before, since they had both shared their music with each other when they picked it out, but she hasn’t seen everything together yet.

Otabek moves swiftly and easily across the ice, gaining speed to launch into his first jump, a quadruple toe loop. The landing is perfect, Otabek absorbing the impact expertly.

His camel spin is perfect, the strong lines of his back making crisp angles against the ice. His step sequences are clean, if not as emotive as Yuuri’s, and his next two jumps are well-executed again.

Nastya is enraptured, and it’s only partly because he’s her boyfriend. He’s really drawn in the rest of the audience, too.

The rest of his short program passes so quickly, Nastya wishes she could see it a million more times. She’s definitely going to find it on YouTube later.

She sits on the edge of her seat as her eyes dart between Otabek in the Kiss and Cry and the scoreboard.

He’s muttering something to his coach, and the crowd is still murmuring about Otabek’s performance. Finally, the scores come in, and there’s a gasp as everyone realizes that Otabek has taken the lead by half a point.

Nastya shrieks and leaps off her seat, clapping and screaming. “Beka!”

She wishes she could go running down to the Kiss and Cry and jump into his arms, but she contents herself with just yelling from the stands.

Otabek looks into the crowd after his coach claps him on the back, and finally he locks eyes with Nastya.

He smiles, a real, genuine smile that Otabek so rarely shows in public, and blows her a kiss.

Nastya flushes immediately, but she absolutely pretends to catch it in her dorkiest most embarrassing move to date.

When the competition finally winds down, Otabek has a narrow lead over Yuuri, followed by Leo in third, and Mateo in fourth. Emil trails in fifth, and Arnulf is firmly last. 

Nastya waits impatiently for Otabek to change and finish speaking with his coach so she can congratulate him again for his short program today. She'll tell Yuuri good job, too, but he's not a priority at the moment.

After a considerable wait—Nastya forgot about any interviews from the press that might interrupt—Otabek finally emerges from the skaters only area.

"Beka!" Nastya calls to him, waving.

"Hey," he says simply, not using her name or a term of endearment like she wishes he could.

She gives him a quick hug, squeezing him tight enough that she hopes she can convey how proud she is of him in the one gesture.

“You were amazing. Your spins were tight, your jumps were solid… amazing,” she breathes.

She drops her voice extra low, though she’s speaking Russian and doubts anyone will overhear. “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

Otabek smiles.

“Thank you for the compliment,” he says. “I’m heading back to the hotel now, if you’d like to accompany me?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Let me just text Viktor that I’m leaving so he knows not to wait for me.”

“How considerate of you,” Otabek smiles, knowing full-well that the Yuri Plisetsky of old wouldn’t have shown the same courtesy.

Otabek’s coach, chatting with Leo’s coach, calls out a reminder to Otabek for their meeting that evening, and with a quick goodbye, the two friends are off.

The hotel is within walking distance of the rink, and Nastya has a good enough sense of direction that she guides them back with ease.

They go up to Otabek’s room, and Nastya takes a seat on the bed while Otabek showers and changes into casual clothes.

Otabek has always been efficient in the bathroom (unless he’s shaping his eyebrows), so she’s not left waiting long.

He comes back out into the room and sits next to Nastya on the bed.

Otabek is warm and soft from his shower, hair still wet, though he toweled it off.

Nastya cups his jaw, drawing her fingers over the beginnings of stubble there.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says reverently, and finally brings their lips together, a short but deep kiss.

“I love the way you skate,” she adds, and kisses him again, licking into his mouth slow and wet.

“Stop,” Otabek chuckles, “you’re embarrassing me.”

“And _god,_ your outfit was fucking gorgeous; _you’re_ gorgeous.” She kisses him again, longer and more drawn out.

“Nastya, please,” Otabek complains when she starts to pepper kisses across his cheeks, his nose, his forehead.

“Please what? I’m complimenting you. Deal with it.”

“It’s… too much,” he says, and suddenly Nastya hears real hesitance in his voice.

“Beka?” she asks, looking at him carefully.

“Just give me a minute,” he says, and he stands up from the bed, his back to Nastya.

He takes a deep breath and shifts his weight back and forth strangely.

Nastya recognizes that shuffle.

“Oh my god,” she laughs, unable to control herself. “You’re hard!”

“Nastya, _please_ ,” Otabek whines.

“I got you hard from saying nice things to you!” she throws her head back laughing, and lies back on the bed, shoulders and tummy shaking from the giggles.

“You’re awful,” Otabek says.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” Nastya smirks.

“Hmm,” Otabek says, which Nastya takes to mean he agrees.

Hoping to distract him so they can kiss more, Nastya remembers the text message.

“Hey, by the way. Remember a couple weeks ago you sent me a text in Kazakh? You forgot to explain it. Tell me what it says?” she asks, pulling up the screenshot on her phone and turning it to show Otabek.

He leans in to read the screen and immediately chokes.

“What did you tell me?” she asks. “Oh my god, is it something dirty, Beka?”

“No! It’s not dirty!” he says quickly. “It’s… it’s something really nice, I promise.”

“Tell me what it means? Please?”

“You know, you could just google translate it,” Otabek murmurs.

 “ _Fine,_ ” Nastya says, shaking her head.

She pulls up a new tab in her mobile browser and types in the phrase “Men seni jaqsy köremin” and clicks translate.

“I am your shadow?” she asks. She’s even more confused, now.

“What? Ah, I guess that is the literal translation. But that’s not really what it means,” Otabek says, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t say anything else for a moment, just lies down on the bed next to Nastya, propped up on one elbow so he can look at her.

“In Kazakh, we have… different ways to say things,” he starts.

“No kidding. It’s like, a different language or something,” Nastya deadpans.

“Shut up,” Otabek teases, poking her shoulder. “I meant that there’s more than one way to express similar sentiments.”

“Alright, so what does it mean?”

“This is the uh, more casual version.”

“Beka, come on. Just tell me, okay? You’re making me nervous,” Nastya says, brows furrowed.

“It means I love you,” Otabek says in a rush.

Nastya sucks in a surprised breath. _I love you_.

“Beka,” she says softly. She wraps her arms around the back of Otabek’s neck and draws him down to kiss her briefly. “I love you, too.”

“You don’t have to say it,” Beka says shyly, pulling away.

“No, I want to,” Nastya says, tugging him close. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I want to say it. I love you, Beka. You’re an incredible person and I’m so glad you’re my best friend _and_ my boyfriend.”

“You’re too much,” Beka says. “I’m so lucky to have you in my life. The most beautiful, talented, wonderful girl.”

“God, now _you’re_ too much,” Nastya says, and she reaches for the pillow to whack Otabek on the head with it.

“Oh, so it’s like that?” Otabek says, faking indignance. “I tell you I love you and you _assault_ me?”

“What you gonna do about it Altin?”

Otabek lunges for the other pillow and swings it at Nastya.

“How dare you! Don’t you know it’s illegal to hit a girl?”

“All’s fair in love and war, babe,” Otabek says, and brings the pillow back to swat at her again. This time she defends herself, using her own pillow to block his attack.

They tussle a little, standing on their knees on the bed trying to get the upper hand. Otabek seems to have the upper hand, as he makes up for his lack of speed with brute force.

Nastya fights valiantly though, and then she fights dirty.

“Oh, Beka! You’re so handsome and sexy and kind and talented!”

“What?” he asks through a laugh.

“I love the way you shine on the ice!”

“Are you—are you trying to give me a boner so I can’t hit you with this pillow anymore?!”

“That depends; is it working?” she giggles.

“No! I’m not falling for your dirty tricks, Plisetskaya!”

They continue to tussle until the bedding is a mess, their hair is a mess, and they’re laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

“Okay, okay, truce,” Otabek says, putting his hands up.

“Alright, fine,” Nastya says. She doesn’t actually mean it though. She’s going to attack when he’s least—

Otabek smacks her in the face with his pillow.

“Oops?”

“You called truce!” Nastya yells, even though he just did exactly what she was planning on doing.

“You played dirty first!” Otabek accuses. “Trying to turn me on so I couldn’t fight back. Very rude.”

“I’m just trying to be a loving girlfriend,” Nastya says with false innocense.

“You’re ridiculous,” Otabek says, but drops his pillow. He pulls the pillow out of Nastya’s hands, and puts a hand on her waist.

The two of them topple over sideways so they’re laying on the bed, facing each other, breathing a little heavily.

“What time is it?” Otabek asks after a moment.

Nastya fumbles for her phone. “Almost four.”

“Oh, good. I still have two hours til I’m meeting with Temir to talk about tomorrow.”

“Two hours to make out?”

“You don’t think our lips would fall off after _two hours_?”

“Coward,” Nastya teases.

“I should probably stretch out a little, anyway.”

“Fine. Need any help?”

“Sure, but don’t kill me. We aren’t all bendy like you.”

They clamber off the bed and Otabek rolls his shoulders before sitting down on the floor and extending his legs out to either side.

As he bends towards his knee to the left, Nastya pushes gently on his back.

“Say when,” she says.

“There’s good,” Otabek replies when he hits a good spot that pulls just slightly but gives a good, deep stretch. “Should’ve done this right out of the shower when I was still warm.”

“Whoops. Sorry for distracting you.”

“Yeah, it’s all your fault,” Otabek teases.

He switches sides, and they repeat the process. They go through a few more stretches on the floor before Otabek stands and continues through his routine.

Nastya decides to join him in stretching a bit, taking gleeful pride in how much further she can reach than her boyfriend.

“God, do you even have ligaments?” Otabek asks as she drops into a perfect split.

“No, Yakov removed them and replaced them with lycra when I was thirteen,” Nastya deadpans.

“That explains so much.”

“Just think of all the kinky sex we could have,” Nastya blurts.

They stare at each other for a moment.

“I did _not_ mean to say that,” Nastya says when the silence gets too unbearable.

“I knew you didn’t have a filter, but wow.”

“I’m so sorry, Beka.”

“No, it’s fine. I um. I wasn’t really sure where you stood on the whole uh, physical intimacy level, actually.”

“Honestly I haven’t thought much about it. I’ve had a lot going on. I mean like, theoretically I’m very interested, I’m just not really sure where I’m at on the whole putting it into practice part.”

“We can maybe talk about it? And uh, see how we both feel. And maybe by the off-season we’ll… revisit the topic.”

“Yeah, not going to do anything crazy during the season,” Nastya agrees.

Otabek nods. “Good. Good talk.”

Nastya arches an eyebrow. “Anyway, are you done stretching, or can we get to the making out?”

“Oh fine, you’ve convinced me.”

“Excellent,” Nastya says, and takes Otabek’s hand and brings him back to the bed.

They settle in on their sides, wriggling close enough to each other that they can kiss without too much strain, but far enough that any errant boners won’t make things too weird.

Nastya licks her lips and leans in to meet Otabek halfway.

They kiss slowly, since they have two full hours to kiss as much as they’d like.

Nastya brings her hand up to Otabek’s cheek again, and coaxes his jaw open.

Gently, she licks at his lower lip, then into his mouth, their tongues brushing against each other.

Otabek returns the action, licking at her lips and then deeper into her mouth, before they both pull back with a satisfying sound.

No sooner do they separate than they come back together, eager to keep exploring.

They have limited time in each other’s presence, so they have to make it count, Nastya figures. Especially if they’re not going to be moving past kissing until the off-season, she intends to get every last breath possible out of Otabek.

Her fingers travel from his jawline to the back of his head, scratching at the short hairs of his undercut and pulling him against her mouth hard.

Otabek runs his hands down Nastya’s sides, almost light enough to tickle, but when she squirms against it he applies a bit more pressure.

A soft, pleased sound escapes her lips, and she’s happy to note that it’s kind of high pitched.

They tilt their heads to find a different, deeper angle, and Nastya can feel Otabek smile just slightly when they find it.

It sort of messes up their rhythm, but they find it again soon enough.

They take turns taking control of the kiss, neither of them wanting to submit to the other for too long. Otabek’s hands continue to wander up and down Nastya’s sides, migrating sometimes to her back and tugging her closer so they’re almost chest to chest.

“Hey, uh,” Otabek pauses, breathing a little heavily.

“Hmm,” Nastya hums, moving away from Otabek’s mouth and toward his jaw and neck.

“Is there anywhere I should avoid touching?” he asks, sighing as Nastya sucks a little at his neck. “Ah, don’t leave any marks, I have to compete on camera tomorrow!”

“No marks, I promise,” she murmurs. “And I guess uh, I mean we’re not going to do anything sexual, so don’t touch my dick? But otherwise I think it’s fine.”

“Chest is okay?” Otabek questions.

“Yeah, I guess,” Nastya says.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises. “Just tell me to stop if it’s weird.”

“Yeah, yeah, stop talking and kiss me again.”

Otabek does as instructed, meeting Nastya in a sweet, slightly sloppy kiss. It’s wonderful, and Nastya feels like a normal teenager for once.

She starts to lose track of time as Otabek’s hands roam up her back, through her hair, and finally down her chest. She can sense his hesitation, waiting to see how she reacts to it. She’ll admit, it’s a little strange, but perhaps only because no one has ever touched her like this before.

When his hands pass her nipples, she notices a little thrill of feeling. In the back of her mind, she wonders how cis girls feel when their hot boyfriends touch their breasts. She wriggles a little as the thought takes hold.

“Ah, I think that’s enough for now,” she says, and Otabek immediately moves his hands away.

They continue to kiss though, and their hands stay safely on necks and backs, and Nastya whimpers when Otabek nibbles on her lip a little bit. He tugs gently and then lets it go with a pop.

“Do that again,” she says in a heated rush, immediately taking Otabek’s mouth again.

Otabek smiles into the kiss, and after a little tonguing, he repeats the nip and tug on her lower lip.

 _Fuck, that’s hot,_ Nastya thinks. Her downstairs thinks so too, but she ignores it as best as she can. She hasn’t really spent much time thinking about her genitals, frankly, because it seemed kind of pointless. She knew surgery for it existed, but that sounded like a post-career move. The recovery alone didn’t seem plausible while she was still competing; even in the off season she can’t afford to take that much time off.

So she ignores her dick, pretends it doesn’t exist.

It usually works, except when she’s aroused.

Like right now.

 _No, no, focus on the kissing. How good Beka feels, how amazing it is to be touching him, how hard I am—_ Oh god dammit.

“Mmm, Beka,” she says, trying to stop the make outs for a minute, but her tone is too needy.

Of course, Otabek takes it as encouragement, and pulls her in tighter.

“Beka,” she says more firmly. “Hang on.”

He pulls back. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just need a breather.”

“Of course,” he says, and tucks her hair behind her ear, but otherwise adds some distance between them.

When she feels like her heart rate has returned to an acceptable speed, she decides to snuggle into Otabek’s side. He happily wraps an arm around her shoulders, and kisses the top of her head.

“I’m just happy to spend time with you,” Otabek says after a couple minutes. “In person, I mean. It’s kind of a luxury.”

“I know. I wish we lived closer. I want to see you like this every day.”

Beka takes a moment to reach over to the nightstand and retrieve his phone. Nastya is relieved when she sees that they still have an hour until his meeting with his coach. He doesn’t put his phone back right away though, and surprises Nastya by opening the camera app.

“I won’t post it anywhere, of course,” he says quietly. “But I want a picture of us together.”

Nastya grins. “You know I never say no to a selfie opportunity.”

He holds the phone up, nearly dropping it on his face as he tries to put his thumb on the shutter button. Nastya laughs, broad and open, and that’s exactly when Otabek takes the picture.

They review it together, and Nastya thinks it couldn’t be more perfect: her hair is fanned out against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut with happiness. Otabek has a tiny smile, but his eyes are shining with something Nastya can only describe as admiration. _Love,_ she thinks. _That’s what love looks like_.

“Let’s take some more,” Nastya says. “And you’d better send me _all_ of them.”

“Of course.”

They take at least a dozen pictures: silly faces, kissing faces, “don’t fuck with us” faces, duck-lip faces, and of course, a few more where they’re simply laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

“I wasn’t kidding,” Nastya says as she regains her breath. “I want all of them.”

“I know, I know. I’ll send them right now, okay?”

Nastya nods, and watches as Otabek attaches them all to a text and clicks send. “It’s gonna take like twenty minutes to send them all; this hotel’s wifi is terrible,” she remarks.

“You’ll live.”

“I want them _now_.”

“Here, we’ll look at them again on my phone.”

“Good.”

The rest of the hour, they simply hang out and chat, snuggled close. Nastya browses Instagram and shoves her phone in Otabek’s face to show him pictures of cats.

“My coach will be back soon,” Otabek says finally.

“Boo.”

“I know. Do you want to come to dinner with us?”

“You sure that’s okay? I’m sure he wants to talk shop with you,” Nastya says.

“And he can’t do that in front of you?”

“I’m competition, Beka, remember?”

“Yeah, but you hearing about which jumps I may or may not change in a competition you’re not even in won’t change anything.”

“That’s true, I guess. It won’t be too awkward with your coach there?”

“No, I don’t think so. He knows we’re best friends. It’s normal that we would want to hang out as much as we can when we’re in the same place.”

“Alright, well if you’re sure I won’t be on your coach’s shit list or something for crashing dinner, then sure, I’ll come along.”

Nastya sits up and braids her hair, trying to make it look like she hasn’t been rolling around with her boyfriend this afternoon.

Soon enough, Temir comes back to the room, and seems only mildly surprised to see Nastya.

“Hi, Yuri,” he says.

“Salem, Temir,” she greets back.

He asks her a question, to which she eloquently replies, “Huh?”

Otabek laughs. “He asked if you speak Kazakh. That’s a ‘no,’ but I did share a couple basic phrases. Yuri knows hello, goodbye, and thank you.”

He obviously chooses not to share that she also sort of knows “sweet dreams” and “I love you”.

“Practically fluent, then,” Temir teases. 

“Obviously,” Nastya smiles.

“So Temir, I invited Yuri to join us for dinner. I hope that’s okay with you,” Otabek says.

“Oh,” Temir says.

“It’s okay if you don’t want me there,” Nastya says quickly. “We just don’t get to spend much time together.”

“No, um. We can discuss the competition after dinner, then.”

“It really doesn’t matter if Yuri hears about it; he’s not competing against me until Rostelecom.”

“Even so, I would feel more comfortable if he didn’t. He’s your competitor, don’t forget.”

“That’s what I told him!” Nastya says. “See? You know what, I’ll go bother Viktor and Yuuri for dinner, okay? We’ll hang out again tomorrow, Beka.”

Otabek pouts a little, but doesn’t complain. “Alright. Text me?”

“You got it,” she says, and making sure she has everything she came over with, heads out the door.

Temir’s back is to her, though, and so she blows a kiss to Otabek on her way out. He blushes wonderfully, and Nastya lets the door close on her ridiculous laughter that echoes down the hall.

She heads over to Viktor and Yuuri’s room, knocking loudly at the door. She knows they wouldn’t get up to anything _too_ scandalous during a competition, but she still isn’t sure what she’s about to witness.

Fortunately, Viktor answers the door quickly and both men appear to be fully dressed.

“Ah good, I was just about to call you about dinner. Are you joining us, then?”

He steps aside and lets Nastya inside their room. She slouches into the desk chair.

“Yeah, Beka’s coach wants to talk to him about tactics and stuff. Didn’t want me to hear, because I’m a big scary competitor.”

“Well to be honest, you _are_ a scary competitor,” Yuuri says. “You’re hard to beat. I’ve only managed to do it what, twice?”

“Three times,” Nastya grumbles. “If you count Onsen on Ice.”

Yuuri blushes. “That wasn’t an official competition. Besides, we’ve faced off many more times than that. You’re incredibly talented.”

“Thanks, Katsudon. Anyway, yes I’m here for food. Viktor’s paying again, right?”

“Nastya, you have a perfectly adequate bank account,” Viktor complains. “Stop freeloading off me.”

“You owe me.”

“For what?” Viktor exclaims indignantly.

“For the amount of inappropriate behavior I’ve seen between you two.”

“What, Yuuri doesn’t owe you for that too?”

“Nope. It’s always your fault.”

 “You just wait until you and Otabek are public,” Viktor says.

“No way will we be as disgusting as you two.”

“Enough,” Yuuri says. “We’ll pay for dinner, Nastya. But this is the last time.”

“Yuuri, you’ve got to be stronger against her! She’s too powerful otherwise!”

Yuuri shrugs sheepishly and Nastya just smirks.

“So, what are you feeding me?”

 

Dinner is a fairly subdued affair, as Viktor spends more time instructing Yuuri about tomorrow’s free skate than eating his own food.

“Vitya, please,” Yuuri says.

His Russian is still kind of accented, but Nastya has to admit that it’s really good. She wishes she could speak in Kazakh with Otabek. Maybe she should download an app or something. School wasn’t really her thing, but that was because she had no personal motivation for it. She was always going to be a professional ice skater, so who cared about biology or literature? She paid attention in English class, because she wanted to be international: there was a real reason to learn it. Everything else, as far as Nastya is concerned, could go fuck itself.

But Kazakh would be good for her to know.

While Viktor is talking about the minutiae of Yuuri’s technical scores, Nastya opens the app store and searches for language learning apps. The trick will be to find one that offers Kazakh, of course. There’s dozens of apps that promise to make you a fluent speaker in foreign languages, but not nearly as many results when she looks for Kazakh.

Perhaps a tutor?

If she wants a language tutor, she may as well just ask Otabek.

But wouldn’t it be more fun if it was a surprise? She could start complimenting him in his native language… he would probably lose his mind.

_Hello, off-season project._

“I’m telling you, butterscotch is _not_ to be trusted!” Viktor exclaims, bringing Nastya’s attention back to the dinner table.

Nastya shakes her head and opens Instagram again. Browsing the same tags twice is more interesting than whatever _that’s_ about.

Finally, they wrap up dinner, Viktor footing the bill but only after casting a dirty glance at Nastya.

They thank the waiter and head back to the hotel.

A fan stops them in the lobby and very shyly asks for their autographs; Nastya wants to say no but Viktor says that of course, all three of them would be happy to sign her poster, so she scribbles Yuri Plisetsky in its most illegible form to date.

 _If you can’t read it, it doesn’t exist,_ she reasons. Take that, deadname that isn’t fully dead just yet.

She texts Otabek that dinner was boring, and he replies with a tongue-out emoji.  

All that’s left now is to get ready for bed, stretch a little bit, and get some sleep.

Another busy day awaits tomorrow, and she wants to see her boyfriend win gold.

 

When she wakes up at a luxurious seven am, Nastya checks her phone like she always does. She has Instagram notifications, but that’s nothing new. Beka texted her good morning, so she replies with a keysmash that she hopes portrays her reluctance to leave the warmth of her bed.

She dresses like yesterday, in her Team Russia warm up clothes, even though she isn’t competing. She’ll still stretch and warm up with the other skaters a bit, and it’s part of her plan to stay “in character” as Yuri while she’s in public.

She pulls her hair up in a simple ponytail, and goes down to breakfast.

Most of the competing skaters are probably already at the rink, so she fills her plate with scrambled eggs and fruit and finds a table by herself.

She’s scrolling through an article about yesterday’s Short Programs when someone approaches her table.

“Is this seat taken?”

To be honest, Nastya isn’t really interested in making new friends right now. It’s probably a fan, and she doesn’t _have breakfast_ with fans.

Her knee-jerk reaction is “get lost”, but before she can open her mouth, the stranger speaks again.

“All the other tables are taken. I won’t bother you, I promise.”

Oh. Well she’d really look like an ass if she said no now.

“Go ahead,” she says, but makes a show of being totally absorbed in her phone and eggs.

True to their word, the stranger doesn’t say a single thing, simple eats their own breakfast in amicable silence.

 After a few minutes, Nastya finds herself wanting to break the silence, oddly enough. Who the hell is this person? Who just wanders over to a stranger’s table and asks to sit with them?

“Are you here for the skating competition?” Nastya asks after an agonizing five minutes of reading the same paragraph eighteen times and not retaining a single word.

“Yeah,” they say. “I’m uh, competing. This afternoon.”

“In the women’s division then,” Nastya says, and immediately realizes that that might have been rude. “Sorry, that was—”

“No, it’s fine. I’m pretty androgynous.”

Nastya furrows her brow. “I… don’t know this word.”

“Androgynous? It means like, an ambiguous gender. That you can’t really tell by looking at me if I’m a boy or a girl.”

“Oh, thank you for explaining. English is not my first language,” Nastya says, a little embarrassed.

“I figured: you’re wearing a Team Russia jacket.”

“Right,” Nastya laughs. “Is this your first year in the Senior Division?”

“No, it’s my second. But it’s my first year out, so I’m pretty nervous.”

“Out as in like, ‘coming out’? Like um, you’re gay? Ah shit, that’s probably really rude too, I should stop talking.”

“No, it’s okay,” they laugh. “Yes, that kind of out, but I’m not gay, necessarily. I’m non-binary. I’m not a boy or a girl. I use neutral pronouns ‘they’ and ‘them’ to refer to myself.”

“Oh. I’ve never really heard of that, but that’s really cool.” Nastya pauses. There’s another skater who isn’t the gender they’re “supposed” to be! And they’re out! She’s not the only one! Suddenly, she wants to know everything. “And uh, the ISU was okay with it? Your sponsors? And like, your coach and friends and family?”

“I mean, I had to explain what it was sometimes. It’s not a super common identity. But once people understood what it meant, they were pretty accepting. The ISU was like, ‘uh, we only have binary divisions,’ and I said yes, I know, I will continue to compete in my assigned gender’s division, and they said okay cool.”

“That’s… amazing.”

They smile. “Thank you. It’s just who I am.”

“Well, you’re really brave,” Nastya says. “What’s your name?”

“Key Martin,” they say, and extend their hand.

“Uh, Yuri Plisetsky,” Nastya says carefully, and shakes Key’s hand.

“Oh, _you’re_ Yuri Plisetsky,” Key says, smiling. “I’ve definitely heard of you.”

Nastya smirks. “Yeah, I’m slightly famous.”

“Just slightly,” Key laughs. “I remember seeing you in your Senior Debut. The press called you the Russian Fairy.”

“Ugh, that nickname.”

“Not a fan, I take it? Guess it’s not very manly.”

 _Well neither am I,_ Nastya thinks. “It just doesn’t describe my skating very well at all, and it kind of stuck for a couple years. It took a lot of work to bury.”

“Maybe I’ll watch you skate and decide for myself if you’re a ‘fairy’ like they say,” Key teases.

“You’ll have to wait for Skate Canada, then.”

“You’re not competing here?”

“No. I’m here to support friends, and to adjust to the time zone difference for Skate Canada next week. Jet lag destroys me.”

“Oh, I know that feeling. My coach doesn’t believe in jet lag, so she always schedules our flights the day before a competition, and then I need like sixteen cups of espresso to make it through both days of competition,” Key laments.

“That’s cruel,” Nastya says, shaking her head. “Speaking of competition, though, I should get going. I am here to watch the men’s division, after all.”

“Well thanks for letting me sit with you, Yuri. It was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, same, Key. Good luck today. Maybe I’ll stay and watch you compete.”

“Oh gosh, you’ll make me nervous,” they laugh. “Bye!”

“Bye,” Nastya says, and offers a little wave as she heads toward the exit and on to the rink a few blocks away.

She checks her phone on the walk, and has three texts from Viktor that all amount to “where are you?” and one from Otabek asking if she’s coming to the warm up or not.

She sends a simple “omw” to both of them, and picks up her pace.

After Nastya stretches and warms up as much as she can without getting in the way, she rejoins Viktor on the side, who is watching Yuuri carefully.

“I met someone very interesting at breakfast,” Nastya says casually. “Key Martin. In the women’s division, but um, not a woman?”

Nastya realizes she doesn’t know how to speak about Key in Russian, because if there _is_ a gender-neutral term, she doesn’t know it, so she switches to English. “They said they’re non-binary. Not a boy or a girl. They still compete in the women’s division because that’s they’re uh, designated gender?”

“I think the term is ‘assigned’ gender. I’ve been doing some reading,” Viktor says, obviously proud of himself. “But that’s very cool. They’re out, then? Public?”

“Yeah, that’s what they said. I kinda want to watch them skate this afternoon.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Viktor says, and then switches back into Russian to avoid being overheard so easily. “It’s important to support other people like you.”

Nastya goes and finds a seat in the stands and fiddles with her phone until the competition starts. She makes mental notes of who does well, whose costumes look best, whose jumps are strongest, but doesn’t really pay much attention until toward the end, when the real competitors make their way onto the ice.

First up of people Nastya considers interesting as competitors is Emil Nekola. He’s in fifth after the short program, which means depending on how others do, he’s got a chance at the podium still.

He’s wearing a fairly plain costume, except for bizarre, frilly lace cuffs on his wrists and ankles. Nastya doesn’t know what look he was going for, but whatever it was, he missed it.

His performance is good, but Nastya doesn’t think he’ll stay at the top of the standings for long.

The young Argentinian, Mateo Ruiz, is up next. Today he’s wearing a beautiful emerald green and white jumpsuit with a tasteful splash of sequins across his chest and back, and then again on his shins. After yesterday’s back-loaded jumps, Nastya expects to see the opposite, to make sure he gets in a clean skate. However, she is surprised when he only has one jump in the first half, and the rest are indeed in the second half. The song is slower today, so perhaps that allows him to preserve more of his energy. They’re not all perfect jumps, especially the last one where he only just manages to not touch the ice, but his score should still be strong.

Indeed, after his free skate, he sits a solid eleven points ahead of Emil.

Leo is up next, and the crowd roars to welcome their American favorite, even though Leo isn’t from Denver at all. His outfit today is much more skater-esque, in Nastya’s opinion, featuring a teal mock-turtleneck top with short sleeves, crystal epaulettes, and simple black pants.

Leo skates the hell out of his program, visibly gaining confidence and momentum with each success he has on the ice. Nastya looks desperately for flaws, not that she personally has anything against Leo, but she just would much rather see Otabek or Yuuri take gold.  Honestly, though, it might just be Leo who pulls this one out today.

His score is an incredibly twenty-two points ahead of Mateo’s. Ouch.

Yuuri is up next, and he looks… subdued, perhaps is the right word for it. Maybe it’s part of the performance, pulling on the more somber side of nostalgia. But his SP was pretty relaxed, too, and Nastya doesn’t remember his FS being the same kind of emotions.

The music is more upbeat, but Yuuri doesn’t match it. He executes his step sequences beautifully, but his Ina Bauer looks too tight, and his jumps aren’t getting the right height to land them as well as he should.

Is Yuuri not feeling well or something?

His last jump is supposed to be a quad, but he downgrades it to just a double, and Nastya knows that something is wrong. Yuuri’s stamina would never require him to do such a thing. She gets out of her seat and goes down as close as she can to the Kiss and Cry.

“Viktor!” she cries. “Viktor!”

Viktor miraculously hears her, and he pulls his phone out of his pocket and shakes it at her. Yuuri comes off the ice and directly into the embrace of his husband-coach. He puts his guards on and the two of them walk slowly to the Kiss and Cry bench.

While they wait for the scores, Viktor texts Nastya, and though she’s expecting it, she almost jumps when she gets the message.

              From: **Viktor**

Yuuri tweaked a quad during warm ups. It wasn’t serious enough to pull out of the competition, but he had to take it easy. Some rest and I think it will be fine.

 _Dammit. This is what old men get for skating,_ Nastya thinks bitterly. Yuuri is only 27, but that’s getting up there for a professional skater in a Grand Prix series. He’s lucky it’s not more serious. For some reason, knowing that he’s hurt makes Nastya furious.

She sends a quick text to Yuuri in her best Japanese: _Baka!_

Yuuri’s score puts him at a distant second for the moment, but with Otabek taking the ice next and last, he’ll likely end in third.

Once again, Otabek’s warm up jacket slides off to reveal today’s costume: a vaguely military-style top with gold epaulettes and swirls around a deep vee, and a red sash at his waist.

“Davai!” Nastya yells when the crowd quiets, just to make sure he hears her.

His music starts, and he raises his arms in a powerful movement, launching into his opening step sequence. His moves are sleek and powerful, like the walls of a castle that you know will protect everyone inside.

He emanates trust, in Nastya’s opinion, and his jumps are spectacular. Sure, she’s biased, but Otabek’s skating takes her breath away.

As he skates, a warm feeling creeps up through Nastya, starting in her belly and working up through her chest and neck. It’s a feeling of certainty, that Otabek is going to win this. He’s going to beat Leo’s score, she can _feel it_.

When he lands his last jump, Nastya leaps up and cheers, not really caring who might be watching her. When the music stops, and he strikes his final pose, Otabek looks exhausted but fiercely proud. And he should be.

This time, Nastya really does run down from the stands and to the kiss and cry. She doesn’t have the ID badge of a competitor, but she simply tells the security guard ‘I’m Yuri Plisetsky, so get out of my way’, and he lets her.

She waits for the score to come in on the board, giving Otabek a moment with his coach, but as soon as it flashes on the screen and his name is listed at the very top, she runs the rest of the way to the Kiss and Cry and hugs the life out of her best friend.

“What are you doing here?” Otabek laughs, though he hugs Nastya back.

“Security guy let me in,” she says simply. “You were incredible, I’m so proud of you, I’m _so_ proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Otabek says before pushing her back a bit. They’re kind of pushing the limits of best friends hugging, and a terrible, impulsive part of Nastya’s brain is screaming _fuck it, just kiss him! Kiss him in front of all these cameras!_ But she knows they would both regret it, so she holds back.

Otabek’s coach clasps him on the shoulders, conveying his pride much more conservatively.

 

After the general chaos of the end of a competition subsides, Otabek asks if Nastya wants to come celebrate his gold with him.

“I actually want to watch the women’s competition,” Nastya says. “I met one of the competitors this morning, and I want to check it out.”

“Oh? Who did you meet?”

“Key Martin. Uh… Let me say it in English. They’re non-binary. They’re not a boy or a girl. And they’re out to their coach, their sponsors, the ISU… everything.”

“That’s amazing,” Otabek says. “I’ll come with you. We should definitely cheer for them.”

“We don’t even know if they’re any good,” Nastya teases.

“Don’t be an ass,” Otabek says.

The women’s competition starts over two hours after the men’s competition comes to a close, so they go to a café nearby to kill time. Nastya insists on buying, in honor of Otabek’s win.

Finally, it’s time to go back to the rink, and they find decent seats. After flipping through the program, Nastya learns that Key is from Canada, and she decides right there that Key is her favorite Canadian skater. Obviously, they could be the most talentless flop, and they would still be Nastya’s favorite when JJ Leroy was the only other Canadian skater that she knew.

Oh no, Key and JJ were _teammates_.

Poor Key.

Apparently, Key was in fifth after the short program yesterday, which wasn’t terrible, Nastya supposed. She didn’t really know anything about Key as a skater, so who knew.

Nastya does pay attention to the other skaters, eyeing their costumes with envy and thinking about how she would design her outfits if she were allowed to wear the cute little skirts and dresses.

She watches their step sequences, their choreography, and tries to compare it to men’s division skaters. How much could she get away with in her programs? Would anyone notice?

When Key is announced, Nastya yells “Davai” from the stands.

Their costume is the first thing that stands out, because instead of the cute little frilly outfits, they seem to be wearing, well, a men’s outfit. It’s pants and a vest with a green blouse-like top underneath.

They skate out to the middle of the ice, taking their pose.

Their music is the second thing that stands out. It starts out classical, and Nastya thinks it seems pretty normal… until the beat drops. Key is skating to some kind of dubstep remix of what might be Mendelssohn.

Finally, Key’s style stands out as particularly different from their competitors. Where their competitors embrace the flowy, feminine grace approach, Key skates much more like Otabek. They make sharp angles, powerful jumps, and crisp steps.

Nastya worries that their presentation scores are lower because of this approach, but if this is who Key is—how they feel they skate best, truest to theirself—then Nastya can’t fault that.

She’ll fight the ISU if Key’s presentation skills keep her from the podium.  

Slowly, she wonders why she hasn’t taken this approach to her own skating. Sure, she’s not out to everyone and their brother, but shouldn’t Nastya skate the way she thinks is her best, and truest to herself too?

Why is she so concerned with being manly enough in her skating?

Key’s scores come in, and puts them in first for the time being. Nastya cheers for Key, clapping appreciatively, and trying to shake off the thoughts about her own skating.

Otabek bumps her shoulder, asking if she’s ready to go.

“One sec,” she says, and opens her camera app. She takes a quick selfie, then goes to Instagram. She uploads it with the caption “Davai @MartinIsTheKey #SkateAmerica”.

“Alright, now we can go,” she says.

They go for a walk around town, taking silly pictures and window shopping. Finally, when it’s late enough for dinner, they go out to a nice celebratory dinner with Otabek’s coach, Yuuri, and Viktor.

The evening is relaxed and fun, and Nastya almost feels like herself. There’s still Temir, and while he’s a good guy, Nastya has no plans to come out to the man personally. He can find out when the rest of the world does.

She remembers that she meant to DM Key about what pronouns she should use if she speaks about Key in Russian, so she sends off the message before she forgets _again_.

Tomorrow she’ll have to do some serious training for Skate Canada next weekend, but this—being with Otabek a couple of days, meeting Key, getting adjusted to American time zones—has been a good start to the major competitive season.  

Watch out, Alberta. Nastya Plisetskaya is coming to kick your Canadian _ass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kazakh explanation/translation from this video: https://youtu.be/QceafI8aG9U?t=3m19s  
> Beka’s FS outfit inspiration: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/da/ec/cb/daeccb1cbda0c547bab6e5c9b124d160--style--mens-shorts.jpg


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nastya's first big test-- Skate Canada-- is not without its problems. But friends pull her through, and then it's time for a little girls' day at the spa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is like, half as long as the first two, and i think most of the remaining chapters are around this length, too ? just as a heads up.  
> THAT SAID, i'm home on winter break now so i'm hoping to update a little more frequently, and since the chapters are shorter, the editing should go faster.

It’s the night before Skate Canada, and Nastya is not ready to kick anyone’s ass.

She’s staring at her costume for tomorrow with contempt. Why had she chosen this style? It’s hideous, it’s not her style at all, even before she allowed herself to be a girl. She doesn’t even think Otabek could pull off her Short Program costume, and that’s really saying something.

Boring black, white, and silver. And a vest, god, what had she been thinking?

Damn Yuuri and his terrible suggestions. She’s never trusting him again.

The Free Skate costume was a little better, but its boxy cut was masculine and stern, and the dread in her stomach was building. How was she going to live through the rest of her skating career like this? She’s got _years_ of competitive skating left in her; she’s starting to realize she’s going to have to rethink this whole “stay in the closet until retirement” angle.

Meeting Key had helped. They had chatted via Instagram occasionally in the past week, and Nastya was seriously considering telling Key about her situation. Maybe they could help Nastya, from their own experience, in a way that none of her supportive, understanding, but ultimately outsider friends could. 

She decides to tell them after Skate Canada: better to stay focused on the competition than be glued to her phone waiting for Key’s responses.

Yakov seems to notice that she’s more nervous than usual before a competition: he gives her more space and tells her in that gruff, harsh way of his that she’s prepared and she just needs to get a good night’s rest to feel ready.

Nastya knows she’s technically prepared, but it’s the emotional aspect that’s got her worried. She always has an extra fire burning in her when she competes against JJ, and Phichit, Seung Gil, and Christophe were going to be there, too. Now was not the time to doubt herself or her preparation.

After a healthy but filling dinner, Nastya browses through shitty local television programming for an hour before she decides she’s just going to go to bed.

All she can do is skate her best, tomorrow. True to herself.

 

Warm ups are, for lack of a better word, a disaster.

She’s wearing the stupid vest costume and she feels like an ass. It doesn’t even make sense with her theme, and it’s a total departure from costumes she’s worn in years past. She knows that costumes aren’t _really_ that important, but they’re still the judge’s first impression of you.

They’re going to be very, very confused.

Well, they’ll be confused _if_ she can actually pull off her program the way she wants to.

She wants to look fluid and intense, like flames eating up a trail of gasoline. She wants to be smooth and fierce.

Instead, she feels like she’s at her first official meet, back in juniors, and the entire world is watching her.

She draws second, lucky her, but at least she can get it the hell over with.

Seung Gil goes first, and Nastya doesn’t pay his routine any attention.

She’s bouncing her knees lightly, trying not to clench up all her muscles. When Seung Gil is taking his bows, she does a full body shiver that she hopes will dispel some of this clawing anxiety.

Viktor and Yuuri aren’t here, having returned to Russia to practice for Yuuri’s next competition, and for Viktor to stand in for Yakov in his absence.

Otabek is back in Kazakhstan, too, so she’s essentially all alone.

Fuck.

Her name is announced, she takes off her guards, and steps onto the ice.

Truth be told, Nastya doesn’t remember much of her performance. Instead, it feels very mechanical and technical; stiff and unbecoming of someone with her dance background and abilities.

She nails all of her jumps and doesn’t miss a single step, but she knows that her interpretation score will suffer.

Hopefully, it’s enough that she can recover tomorrow in the Free Skate. She’s already dreading the snide comments JJ might drop her way, because barring catastrophe on his part, he’s certainly going to do better on the Short Program today.

It would be hard not to.

Sure enough, her score is good but nowhere near her usual scores, and Yakov grumbles something about “terrible start” and “whatever was going on in your mind today, you better forget it for tomorrow, because it wasn’t working”.

She just takes it, because there’s no way she could defend that performance. It was shit, she knows.

She ends the Short Program in fourth, a rarity for her, but given her performance and who she was up against, it’s not surprising. Even Christophe is ahead of her, and he’s notoriously a slow starter in the early season.

Back at the hotel, she gets a quick shower, and then lays on her bed. Yakov is off with Mila, so Nastya is on her own for at least a few hours.

She has a text from Otabek, telling her that she skated well despite the disappointing presentation score, and that she’ll find her emotions better tomorrow. She debates calling him, but doesn’t know what she would say.

Instead, she opens her messages with Key on Instagram, and asks if they’re free.

Surprisingly, Key replies within just a few minutes.

_Hey Yuri!_

_Saw your SP. You’ve got great skills! How do you feel about it?_

Nastya thinks that’s a rather diplomatic way of describing her performance today. She opts for honesty.

_It was shit. My interpretation was abysmal. That’s not how it’s been going in practice at all. But I hate the costume, and it really put me in a bad mindset I guess._

Key’s reply comes quickly again.

_All over a costume? Didn’t take you for the frivolous type._

Nastya grimaces. Guess she should tell them now, then.

_It’s more complicated than just the outfit. It’s just… so masculine. That’s not who I am, but I’m afraid of people finding out who I am before I’m ready, so I thought a manly outfit would help hide me. But all it did was make me skate like shit._

Before she can regret it, she sends another message directly after.

_Key, I’m trans. I’m a girl._

Anxiety wells in her stomach, irrationally scared that she’s just made a terrible mistake in telling Key.

_I’m gonna type a long response, so don’t think I’m ignoring you._

Nastya isn’t sure if that helps or hurts more, knowing that a long reply is coming, but she puts her phone on her stomach and tries, not very successfully, to think about something else in the few minutes it takes for Key’s reply notification to come through.

_Let me be the first to tell you that I completely understand what you’re going through. I was terrified that I had to be the typical frilly girly girl to be a viable competitor in the women’s division. I waited a year to come out, because I thought I could manage it. It’s ‘just a performance’, right?_

_Except that skating is who we are. So when we have to compartmentalize and deny ourselves the freedom of expressing ourselves—the most basic part of being a decent figure skater—we lose a crucial element of our art. Could I still land a triple sal while wearing pink ruffles and sequins? Sure, and I did. Did it feel good? Did it feel right? No. Because that’s not me. That’s not what my skating is._

_I know that coming out is scary, and I’m really flattered that you felt comfortable enough to tell me after just a week of knowing each other! Of course, your secret is safe with me as long as you need it to be. But honestly, after I let myself be … myself, in public, 100% of the time, I’ve never skated better._

_Don’t come out before you’re ready, for sure. But don’t sacrifice who you are—what your skating is—for an identity that you don’t fit._

_Fuck that ugly costume. Be the girliest girl who ever wore a vest. Be yourself on the ice, no matter what clothes you’re wearing, or what name and pronouns you have to go by. Don’t skate for anyone’s expectations but your own._

_Shit, that got long, but I hope it wasn’t too preachy. Also, do you have a different name you want me to use in DMs here?_

Nastya isn’t crying.

She’s not.

She’s damn close, but she won’t let the tears fall. She’s stronger than that. She’s the fucking Ice Tiger of Russia.

Coming out to Key was the right thing to do. They _get it._

And their words were exactly what Nastya needed.

_Shit, Key, you sure you’re not like, a professional therapist or something? Thank you. Seriously, that helped so much. I really appreciate it._

_And yeah, my name’s Anastasiya (Nastya) Plisetskaya (Russian last names change gender too haha)_

It feels good to have a comrade in arms, so to speak, in this whole gender business.

_Ooh, that’s cool! I didn’t know about the last names thing. Gosh, what do NB people like me do in Russia?_

Nastya laughs.

_If I meet any, I’ll let you know. You’re the first NB person I’ve (knowingly) met. I guess they have to just pick a binary gender that sucks the least to them? Like, we have a neuter gender, but it’s for inanimate objects. I don’t think most people like to be called “it”._

Key replies with several laughing emojis.

_“That sucks the least” yeah I guess. Hmm, that’s tricky. I mean, I told you you can use feminine for me when you speak in Russian, but I wish there was a better option._

Nastya sends a frowny face emoji.

_Like I said, if I find something better, you’ll be the first to hear about it. Anyway, I should go do some stretches or something. Thanks for chatting, as always. You’re really cool, Key._

Nastya gets an Instagram alert that she’s been tagged in a photo.

It’s from Key, and it’s a selfie of them making a silly face and a peace sign. The caption reads: “Davai @yuri.plisetsky ! #amIdoingthisright #teachmerussianpls #SkateCanada”

Then her DMs buzz, too.

_I’m happy to chat any time, Nastya. You’re cool too! And I think that tomorrow is going to go just fine. Forget about the shitty costume. Just do you, like no one else can. You’re an Original, girl. Work it. Or something xD_

With a smile, Nastya hauls herself off the bed and sets to a series of light stretches.

She calls Otabek, even though it’s stupidly early in Kazakhstan, and tells him about her conversation with Key, and he’s glad to hear that the two of them are still chatting.

“It’s good for you to have as much support as you can get,” Beka says, sleepiness making his voice thick. “And since Key is also trans, it’s good for you to have someone to talk to who can understand what you’re going through first hand. I’m really happy you’ve made a new friend, love.”

“Yeah, it was really nice. I mean, not that you and Viktor and Katsudon and Mila have been bad, but there’s only so much you _get_ , you know? Key’s been there. They know.”

The call is short, because Otabek wants to get a little more sleep before practice, but Nastya is glad to have heard his voice.

“I’m going to head to dinner soon, so you get some more sleep, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Beka.”

“Okay. Love you, Nastya.”

Nastya smiles. “Love you too.”

 

 In the morning, Nastya feels anxious but invigorated. She braids back the front of her hair and joins the two braids in a half-up look.

She puts on some simple makeup: a bit of foundation, and dark, winged eyeliner. It has glitter in it, which isn’t immediately noticeable from a distance, but she likes it and figures if you can’t wear glitter on the ice, where _can_ you wear it?

She joins Yakov for breakfast and though he raises a curious brow, doesn’t make any comments on her appearance. Mila joins them minutes later, and she smiles when she sees Nastya, but seems to be unsure if she’s supposed to say anything, so she contains herself and just sits down with her plate of fruit and wheat toast.

They chat idly about their free skates, Yakov muttering reminders about free-legs and “expressing passion” to Nastya, which is supposed to be her theme this year. Yesterday’s performance was certainly lacking in the “passion” category, but she thinks that today is going to go better.

It _is_ going to go better.

They head to the rink after breakfast, and Nastya sets to warming up, stretching with Mila.

“Hey,” Mila whispers.

“What?”

“I like your hair and makeup today. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but it looks really good. Is that glitter?”

“Urban Decay, bitch,” Nastya smirks.

“Shit, what did that set you back?”

“Too much, but _god_ , it was worth it.”

They laugh and get back to stretching for a minute.

“Hey, Baba,” Nastya says. “For now it’s probably better not to talk about it. The make up and stuff, you know? I dunno. Just for now. I’m… figuring things out.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever u need, _lil sis._ ” Mila whispers the last two words, but she certainly doesn’t lower her volume when she throws her head back and cackles at Nastya’s frown.

“I’m not little!” Nastya hisses.

“Sure, you’re taller than me, but I’m older and stronger, and can _definitely_ still lift you. Don’t push your luck.”

Yakov has had enough of their shenanigans, it seems, because he stomps over. “No lifts! Get serious, both of you! What are you, children?”

The girls exchange looks that seem to say “whoops”, and get back to their pre-competition warm ups.

Nastya’s on-ice warm up goes well. She focuses on loosening up, on her ballet-like movements, the curve of her long limbs and the flow from one step to the next. She only does a few jumps, just what she needs to get her muscles ready, but she’s not worried about the technical elements.

Today, Nastya Plisetskaya is going to make Katsuki Yuuri tremble with envy over her interpretation score. She is going to be the best, because that’s who she is.

When they’re called off the ice to end the warm up, Nastya sits with Yakov and quickly pulls out her phone to look at Key’s message on Instagram once more.

_Fuck that ugly costume. Be the girliest girl who ever wore a vest. Be yourself on the ice, no matter what clothes you’re wearing, or what name and pronouns you have to go by. Don’t skate for anyone’s expectations but your own._

She admittedly likes today’s costume better than yesterday’s, but the black and red jacket is so square and unlike anything she’s ever worn on the ice before.

_Fuck the ugly costume._

_I skate for no one but myself._

When it’s her turn, she flips her hair over shoulder and takes the ice with the proud posture of a prima ballerina.

She takes her position and waits for the music to start, repeating Key’s words to herself.

_No sacrifices. Only me. I only skate for me._

_I’m going to show them_ my _skating._

_Anastasiya Nikolaevna Plisetskaya’s kick ass skating. Trade mark that shit._

The music starts, an energetic piano and cello sonata by Rachmaninov, and she pushes off.

Her first few moves are a little rough, but she settles in well enough for the lyrical section when the cello really gets to sing.

As the melody mounts and soars, so does she. Her spins are breathtaking; her Ina Bauer is effortless.

Each jump has an easy grace to it, and she raises an arm in several of them just because it _feels right_.

In the more aggressive sounding sections, when the cello bites into each note, Nastya lets her aggression fuel the fire, her movements becoming wilder and freer as the volume grows.

When the softer, smoother melody returns, she refines her movements, bottling the intensity up as though she has to save it.

She breathes with the music, feels it coursing through her veins as she dances across the ice.

She is, for four, beautiful minutes, not Yuri Plisetsky.

She is rough, she is new: like a baby animal that must learn to walk just after being born.

But as the piece winds down, she launches into her final spin and strikes her ending pose with the force and conviction of _herself_.

Her hair is a windblown mess; combing it out later will surely be a pain.

But right now, she feels nothing but adrenaline and certitude that this performance was _exactly_ what she needed today, not just for the competition, but for herself.

She is fiercely proud as she pumps a fist in the air before placing the fist over her heart and bowing, heart-felt and exhausted.

She skates off to the Kiss and Cry where Yakov looks _considerably_ happier with her performance. It’s a much more cheerful scowl, Nastya thinks.

The top three from yesterday, Christophe, Phichit, and JJ, still have to compete, but they’ll be hard pressed to be Nastya’s Free Skate score. They’ll have to rely on their higher scores from yesterday to beat her.

It’s not a personal best for her, but it’s damn good for the start of the season, and even Yakov says it’s a good score.

She checks her phone as soon as they leave the Kiss and Cry, and she has several texts from Otabek, who had “live-texted” her performance. This largely consisted of him sending various hyperbolic adjectives like “amazing”, “incredible”, and her Bielmann spin was apparently “perfection”.

She smiles, though, because she thinks the same of Otabek’s skating. And besides, what she just pulled off was so much better than yesterday, it must truly look “incredible” by comparison.

She watches Christophe’s performance distractedly. He’s certainly tamed some of the overt sexual undertones of his performances, but there’s still a little too much pandering to his ass than Nastya would like to see from a man his age.

He skates well, but he was only a few points ahead of Nastya yesterday, and his Free Skate isn’t enough to topple her from first place.

Phichit is up next, and Nastya wonders if today will be an “on” or an “off” day for the Thai skater. He had been pretty hit or miss last season, either coming in first or not even touching the podium. He lacked consistency. Yesterday he had been good, but would he be able to pull it off again today? Would his score beat Nastya’s?

In the end, his score beats Christophe’s, but falls just half a point shy of Nastya’s score.

Finally, it’s JJ’s turn, and Nastya clenches her fists.

She’s mad at herself for doing so poorly yesterday, because that just gives JJ that much more space to take first from her.

His skate is clean, and all Nastya can do is grind her teeth as she waits for the scores to come in.

His FS total is lower than hers, but _dammit_ , combined with yesterday’s SP, he takes gold by two points.

“Fuck!” she exclaims, not caring who hears.

She hates this feeling, because she knows that it’s _her fault_. It’s not an “I did my best and someone just did better” moment. It’s an “I fucked up and let someone else take first because of my mistakes” moment, and she’s _angry_.

She wants to kick something, but she knows Yakov would give her absolute hell for making a scene in public, especially over second place, so she reins it in.

She takes a few deep breaths, and prepares for the medal ceremony.

She accepts her silver with a bit of a grimace, compared to the unadulterated cheer on Phichit’s face with his bronze medal.

She sticks around to watch the women’s competition again, mostly under the guise of supporting her rinkmate, but Sara Crispino is here as well, and Nastya respects her skills on the ice, too.

Again, she eyes the costumes with envy, lamenting how good her legs would look in nude-colored nylons and nothing else.

Mila was third after the SP, and she takes the ice confidently, dressed in a velveteen purple leotard that laces up the back and has long matching gloves that go up to her elbows. It has some gems, too, for sparkle. It looks great on her. Nastya kind of wants to steal it from her after this season.

Mila skates very well: she chose a rock song, and the energy she brings is astounding. She’s just as sassy on the ice as she is in real life, Nastya thinks.

Mila’s face says she’s having the time of her life, and really, what more can you ask for as a professional skater? Sure, winning and money from sponsorships keeps you going, but at the end of it, they’re skaters because they _love_ it.

When she finishes her program, her chest is heaving with exertion, but she waves to the audience and Nastya wolf whistles as loud as she can. 

Sara is up next, having finished second yesterday, and her piece is a polar opposite of Mila’s, but intriguing in its own way. She wobbles on her triple-double combo landing, and it throws off her rhythm going into the next step sequence.

Last up is a Lithuanian girl named Ieva Rimšaitė, only seventeen but apparently a force to be reckoned with. She was ahead by a full four points after the SP yesterday, and she looks perfectly poised on the ice during her Free Skate, too.

She skates a near flawless program in a shimmering peach dress with nude-colored, sequined screening covering her shoulders and arms. Her hair is in a perfect ballerina bun, and she looks a little like Liliya 2.0 if Nastya is honest.

She shudders, thinking of what Liliya would’ve been like at seventeen. _Yikes_.

Sure enough, Ieva’s score puts her in first place, knocking Mila down to a silver, just like Nastya.

Well, Yakov should be happy that they both took second at the first big competition of the season, right? Mila especially should have no regrets, from what Nastya has seen.

For herself, she’s definitely still bitter about her Short Program, but she’ll just have to rework a few things and apply Key’s advice to that, too.

And honestly, maybe she’ll go without the vest next time. That thing is awful.

Yakov is satisfied with their double silvers, and they return to Russia in relatively good spirits. Mila and Nastya sit next to each other on the plane, and Nastya tells her about Key and shows her the Instagram message.

“You need to like, print and frame that,” Mila says, and Nastya isn’t sure if she’s serious or not. “Also, remember that we’re going to the spa tomorrow. It’ll help with the jet lag.”

“Oh, that sounds so good. But wait, are they gonna touch my feet? Because I am not about to lose calluses. I’ve worked hard for those things.”

“No, we can skip the feet part. Well, I’d still recommend the massage, but we don’t have to get pedicures.”

They sleep most of the flight, though Nastya finds out when she wakes up as they start to land that Mila had woken up before her and started putting tiny braids in her hair.

“Dammit, Baba, now it’s gonna be all kinky and shit in weird places.”

“Are you telling me you’re not going to shower when you get home? Disgusting.”

“Fuck off,” Nastya says with a sleepy smile.

They split a taxi from the airport, leaving Yakov to his own devices.

Nastya manages a typo-filled text to Otabek, Viktor, and Yuuri that she’s landed safe in Russia, and when the cab gets to her apartment she pays the fare, stumbles out, and barely makes it to her bed before promptly passing out.

 

When she wakes again, it’s six pm, and she’s starving.

She doesn’t have much in her kitchen, since she was out of town for almost two weeks, but she finds some slightly stale crackers to tide her over while she goes shopping.

She picks up some basics—produce for the week, some chicken, kefir.

She hadn’t worn anything special to the grocery store, just some joggers and a jacket. Her hair is down because she couldn’t be bothered to do anything to it.

When she gets to the checkout, the cashier asks, “Did you find everything you needed?”

At first, she doesn’t even blink, just nods her head distractedly. Then she realizes: the cashier used the feminine form for her.

She finds herself in a confusing mix of elated for passing without trying and nervous that someone will recognize her in her neighborhood supermarket.

She calms down by deciding that even if this cashier realizes later who she is, and somehow tells the press “I used the feminine form for Yuri Plisetsky and he didn’t correct me”, she could absolutely blame it on jet lag.

It’s such a tiny detail, in the grand scheme of things, but her closet-brained self can’t help but be overly cautious.

Living like this in the long term can’t be good for your mental health, Nastya thinks.

There’s got to be a better way.

 

The day after a competition is always an off day, so Nastya takes the luxury to sleep in as much as she can.

She’s going to the spa with Mila, and she plans on being Nastya, not Yuri. Mila is going to pay with her card, and Nastya will pay her back; this way no one will be able to prove that “Yuri Plisetsky” was there. If anyone recognizes her, they’re going with the relative story, but Mila assures that this place is classy and won’t pose any problems.

Nastya rolls out of bed at nine, after a solid hour of browsing the internet from her phone from the warmth and comfort of her blankets.

She prepares a light breakfast, showers, and does her hair in two French braids. She puts on some light makeup, mostly for contouring, sticking to neutral shades. She’s not sure what to wear to the spa, so she texts Mila for advice.

From: **Baba**

Something comfortable, and don’t forget a swim suit!

Well, shit.

Nastya doesn’t have a women’s swim suit.

Honestly, she’s not even sure she has trunks anymore; she’s not much of a swimmer.

              From: **Me**

Uh… I don’t have a swim suit…

              From: **Baba**

Ah, shit! Do you wanna borrow one of mine? I have like, a padded swim top that would make it look like you’ve got something going on up there))

From: **Me**

That could work. But uh, the bottoms are probably too small.

From: **Baba**

Do you have any trunks? You could roll the waist down to make them shorter and go for the sporty look

              From: **Me**

I don’t think so… Maybe I can borrow something from Viktor for today

              From: **Baba**

Wtf nastya why don’t you own a swim suit but yes ask Viktor!

Nastya texts Viktor, explaining the situation, and he’s more than happy to loan a pair of bottoms. He asks what color and style Nastya wants: lilac speedo? Hard pass. She doesn’t want to draw attention to her crotch, thank you very much. Grass green trunks? Won’t match the picture Mila sent of the top she’s loaning Nastya, a deep teal. Classic black shorts it is.

She texts Viktor her choice, and sets to picking out the rest of her outfit. She picks a pair of sparkly black leggings, dons a black tank top and layers a white oversized tee that hangs off one shoulder over it.

Casual, but femme. Ish.

She’s still pretty nervous about this whole spa thing, despite it being a place you’re supposed to relax at. Maybe when she gets there and settles in, it’ll be fun. Mila will be there as a buffer and support, too. She’s not alone.

She goes to Viktor’s first, to pick up the bottoms. They’re not super long, hitting about mid-thigh, but most importantly, they’ll be big on her, since she’s thinner than Viktor, so the bagginess will hopefully disguise her junk.

She thanks him for the loan, and he gives her crap over not having her own swim suit.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s on my shopping list now, alright? Not exactly the season for swimwear right now, so it’ll have to wait til I can order something online.”

“I know. But it’s so unusual for _you_ of all people not to have an item of clothing!” Viktor laughs. “You have two full wardrobes!”

“Fuck off, old man,” she says, shaking her head with a smile.

“Have fun with Mila!” Viktor tells her, and she flips him the bird as a goodbye and heads down to the bus stop.

Mila lives about a fifteen-minute bus ride from Viktor and Yuuri’s place, so she sends a quick text that she’s on her way.

When she gets there, Mila greets her with a grin. “I’m so excited we get to have girl time!”

“Yeah,” Nastya smiles. “I’m, uh, kind of nervous about this whole swimsuit thing. Are you sure it’ll look okay? I mean, I don’t have breast forms or anything.”

“I mean, you won’t look like, super chesty, but you’re so thin and slender that being small chested is fine for your stature. Trust me, the padding will make you look like you have tits. Here, come try it on. If you don’t like it, we’ll find you something else.”

Reluctantly, Nastya follows Mila to the bedroom and she peels off her tops. Mila hands her the bikini top, which really looks like a souped-up bra with a sort of crossover style.

She holds it up to herself, thinking how _much_ like a bra it looks, and suddenly has a lot of respect for any girl who willingly goes out in this kind of thing.

She has a professional athlete’s body, for crying out loud, and just the thought of even the spa staff seeing her in this makes her face turn red.

She’s gone shirtless before the few times she’s gone swimming, but that felt less exposed, somehow.

“You okay?” Mila asks, noticing her hesitation.

“I think so,” Nastya says. “I want to at least try it on. I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to pull it off, but I want to try it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mila encourages, and she shows Nastya how to pull it on, helping to tie it in the back. “See? The built-in pads give the illusion that you’ve got a lil something there, but nothing can fall out!”

Nastya looks at herself carefully in the mirror. It’s a cute top, and it sits flush against her chest. She turns to the side, and sure enough, there’s a roundness to the cups that’s all thanks to the padding.

“Aww, baby’s first bikini,” Mila laughs.

Just when she thought the blush was going away, Mila’s comment brings it back full force.

“So what do you think, Tiger? Wanna give it a shot?”

Nastya takes a deep breath. “Does it really look okay? I don’t… I don’t look like a guy?”

“No,” Mila says assuredly. “You look like a pro athlete, with those fucking abs, Little Miss Four Pack. But not a guy. Do you feel okay in it?”

“Will you take a picture of me? I wanna see what Beka thinks.”

Mila laughs. “Gotta have bae’s approval?”

“Shut up, it’s another opinion, is all.”

Mila snaps the photo, and Nastya sends it off to her boyfriend, anxiously awaiting a response.

“Can we hang out around your apartment a little? I just want to see if it’ll get better. I feel really exposed.”

“Honestly, I was a little shy wearing a bikini the first summer after I developed what could be called boobs. I think most girls are. This is your first summer as a woman, instead of a girl. Except it’s not summer, but you know what I mean.”

Nastya manages a smile. “Yeah.”

“Wanna watch Vine compilations on YouTube? I think it’ll be better if you stop thinking about it so much.”

“Alright.”

They waste about half an hour looking for their favorites, and by the end of it, Nastya is laughing and joking with Mila so much that she’s forgotten most of her insecurity about the swim top.

When the current video ends, Mila turns to her. “So, what do you think? Spa time?”

Nastya checks her phone. She has a return selfie from Otabek, giving a thumbs up so that it strategically blocks most of his blushing face.

Nastya takes a deep breath and smiles. “Let’s rock this shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nastya’s FS song: https://youtu.be/YrXMpfwnbQ4?t=12m50s  
> Nastya’s SP song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tgb0jK143MI  
> Swim top inspo: https://www.cdn-outlet.com/photos/options/8160464-54903-1A-zoomin.jpg


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New clothes, new outings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops i accidentally a long chapter again. this one is like 11k? haha

The spa itself is fairly close to Mila’s apartment. The girls walk together, imitating the vines they had just watched, lamenting the loss of the platform.

“I should’ve been a Viner,” Nastya sighs.

“You would’ve been that asshole who just makes failure compilations of JJ, don’t lie.”

Nastya doesn’t deny it, and Mila steers them down a side street. Soon enough, they’re walking through the doors of a cozy business with an impressive amount of green plants in the lobby.

Mila signs them in, and they are taken back to a changing room.

There’s no one else around, which Nastya is thankful for. They take off their layers until they’re just in their swim wear, and put their belongings in lockers. Mila shows Nastya where the towels are, and they go to a room with a hot tub.

Mila gets in with no hesitation, easily sinking into the steaming water.

Nastya takes her time, again glad that there’s no one else around, because she’s worried about her top staying in place, despite how snug it feels.

Eventually, she sinks into the water, and when her top stays where it should, she sighs in relief.

“We’re off to a good start,” Mila says. “Privacy everywhere, no nip-slips—yet—and the temperature of the water is _just_ right.”

Nastya hums in agreement. “It feels amazing.”

They relax quietly for a few minutes, until Mila brings up the competition.

They talk mostly of skating technique, what they did well, what their competitors did well, who the big competition will be at the Finals, that kind of thing.

Mila brings up Key, commenting how she’d like to compete against them some time.

“They were incredible,” Nastya says. “I mean, like, technically you could beat them no problem, but their interpretation was like nothing I’ve ever seen in women’s skating. It was gutsy, that’s for damn sure. Wearing pants alone, my god, an uproar.”

“Speaking of pants, let’s talk costumes. Namely how yours suck,” Mila laughs.

“Noooo,” Nastya whines. “I think I might ditch the SP vest. It’s a fucking travesty.”

“I wonder if we could like, try tailoring the outfits or something,” Mila muses. “Make them better. I mean, totally switching outfits is probably out of the question, and the FS isn’t terrible, as men’s outfits go.”

“Come over to my apartment after this, and we’ll look at the SP shirt together; see if something can’t be done.”

“Sounds good, girl.”

 

After their soak in the hot tub, they get massages.

They’re given plush robes to keep warm in while they get manicures, and they end their session with face masks.

Nastya feels content. Physically, she feels like she’s recovering well from the strain of the competition, and mentally she feels fresh and ready to face her next challenge.

 

They head to Nastya’s apartment, where they first eat lunch, and then pull out the offensive Short Program outfit.

Nastya lays the pieces out on her bed, and the two girls step back and consider them.

“Yeah, I think the vest is a lost cause. What’s the deal with the doily epaulettes? It doesn’t do anything for me thematically or fashionably, so I think it just needs to die,” Mila says assertively.

“Done,” Nastya says, and grabs it off the bed, wads it into a ball, and slams it into her garbage can.

“Now, this shirt,” Mila says, picking at the garment, “I think it has some potential. It’s too plain as it stands, but what if we like, bedazzled it a little bit?”

Nastya makes a face. “You want to _bedazzle_ my Short Program costume?”

“You act like figure skating has never seen glam before.”

“I mean just like, the best you can come up with for fixing up this puffy-sleeved mess is fucking sequins?”

“Do you think the fabric would take dye? What color says ‘passion’ to you, besides red?”

“I dunno, purple, maybe?”

“Aren’t passion flowers purple?” Mila asks.

“Do I look like a damn botanist? Google it.”

Sure enough, they find that passion flowers are possibly the perfect inspiration for this shirt: They’re purple with some white, and kind of a spikey, unusual type of flower.

“Okay, so how do we make _this”—_ Nastya holds up the blousey shirt— “look more like _that_?” She gestures at the image on Mila’s phone.

“Nastya, we’re going on a field trip.”

The field trip, it seems, is to the arts and crafts store, which Mila navigates like it was her childhood home.

Mila grabs a basket at the entrance and begins tugging Nastya through the aisles, grabbing ribbon, small crystals that seem to be meant for jewelry, fabric dye, and then they scour the fake florals section for something that looks close to the picture they found online. Nothing is close enough to Mila’s liking, but she grabs some daisy-looking things anyway, and then ducks back down the aisles for who-knows-what else.

Nastya feels like she’s just along for the ride and allows Mila to drag her around until Mila decides they have everything they need.

They gather their materials and head to another destination: a dry cleaner’s shop?

“Welcome to where the magic happens,” Mila says, by way of explanation.

An older woman with rust colored hair greets them. “Oh, Milichka, how good to see you! And who’s this beautiful young lady with you?”

“ _Tëtya,_ this is Anastasiya. Nastya, meet my Aunt Zhanna. She’s the one who taught me everything I know about sewing.”

Nastya isn’t sure what to do, so she smiles and gives a little wave. Aunt Zhanna is having none of that, and pulls Nastya in close to kiss her on both cheeks.

“What brings you girls to see little old me?” Zhanna asks.

“We’re making Nastya a skating outfit,” Mila says. “We have a shirt, but I’m not sure if it’ll take the dye. And I bought a bunch of other things too, to make it look like a passion flower. That’s our inspiration.”

She shows the phone to Zhanna.

“Oh, a beautiful flower, indeed. Well let’s see what you have to work with, and we’ll come up with a plan.”

They go to the back, where Zhanna clears some space on a table, and they lay out the shirt and their purchases.

Nastya stands back a little while Mila animatedly explains her vision to her aunt, and they discuss how things will work.

Zhanna feels the material and promptly decides the shirt won’t take the dye, but she can whip up a similar shirt no problem, out of fabric that _will_ take the dye.

“If we’re making a new shirt, then it doesn’t even have to look like this one,” Mila says. “This was just… the old shirt. We were going to try to salvage it, but…”

“Well you won’t be able to dye it. So, if you want to be your purple flower, I’d say a new shirt is the way to go.”

“I think a new shirt sounds like fantastic idea,” Mila says. “Nastya? It’s your costume. What do you want?”

“Let’s do a new shirt. This one is… bad. Yeah, let’s just call it bad.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is _fugly_ ,” she says in English.

“Yes. That.”

“So, what are you thinking?” Zhanna asks.

She takes Nastya’s measurements—seeming a bit surprised at the bust measurement, but politely doesn’t say anything.

They talk for a few minutes about the fit, how they’ll use their purchases from the craft store to embellish, and Zhanna sketches out a basic outline.

“Now, I want to be delicate here, and it of course makes no difference to me either way, but this is a _women’s_ cut shirt, yes?”

Nastya exchanges a look with Mila. Mila raises her eyebrows as if to say _it’s up to you_.

“Think like, woman-wearing-menswear,” Nastya says. “I want it to look masculine, but _be_ a women’s shirt.”

“I can certainly do that,” Zhanna smiles. “Now, my husband can take care of the pants I was hemming; I’ll get to work on this right away!”

Nastya feels bad, but she’ll definitely pay Zhanna for her work, and her next competition isn’t really _that_ far away; Rostelecom is just a few short weeks away, and before that, she has a minor competition, too.  

Satisfied, Mila and Zhanna chat a little, while Zhanna starts creating the shirt pattern. After about twenty minutes, they leave Zhanna to her work as another customer walks in.

They decide to go get a cup of tea somewhere, and they take stupid selfies together, though they agree not to post them, given Nastya’s clear feminine look for the day.  

Nastya does send the best ones to Otabek, though, and he texts her heart emojis and passes along a “hello” to Mila.

Nastya blushes slightly at the heart emojis, and Mila teases her over it.

This, of course, brings up Mila’s own romantic love life, and Nastya asks if there have been anymore fuckboys recently.

“No, there have been no boys, fuckboy or not,” Mila says haughtily.

“Does that mean you haven’t been with anyone, or just not with any _boys_?” Nastya says, waggling her eyebrows.

“Well…” Mila says.

“A certain Italian girl, perhaps?” Nastya presses. 

“If you must know, yes, we hooked up again. I almost asked her if she had reconsidered a relationship, but I never quite worked up the courage.”

“Mila,” Nastya says scoldingly. “You told me you were gonna do it!”

“I know, and I was! But like, she said something about how _fun_ it was that we could be so _free_ when we’re together, because there’s no strings! What I was I supposed to say?”

“Well that blows. Uh, you could be like, ‘maybe strings are sexy’.”

“How the fuck do you have a boyfriend? You’re useless.”

“Excuse you, I’m a goddamn delight and Beka loves me.”

Mila’s jaw drops, and then her face blossoms into a cheek-splitting smile.

“Beka _loves you_?” Mila sing songs. “Oh my god, tell me everything. When did he say it? Did you say it back? Wait, who said it first? Did you like, make sweet love to each other afterwards? Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“Calm your tits, Baba,” Nastya says, rolling her eyes. “Fine, I’ll tell you. So uh, we officially like, said it at Skate America. After the SP, we went to like, hang out and make out in Beka’s hotel room. And we were kissing and uh, things got a little heated.

“Oh, also like, a few weeks before Skate America, he had said something in Kazakh, and I didn’t know what it was. So I thought, hey, I’ll ask him about a translation, that’ll cool things off, right? Except he started acting all weird, and I was like, _shit_ , did he say something dirty?”

Mila gasps. “No, he didn’t!”

“Just _wait,_ ” Nastya says. “Okay, so he’s acting weird, and he starts talking about how ‘language is so interesting’ blah blah blah and I’m like get to the point, you’re freaking me out? And then he says this is the _casual_ version. You can fucking imagine what’s going through my head at this point. And then he just fucking blurts it.

“’It means _I love you_.’”

“OH MY GOD,” Mila yells. “That is the cutest shit I’ve ever heard!”

Nastya smirks.

“Okay, okay, but what happened next? Like, what did you say?” 

“I kissed him and said it back, dumbass.”

“Holy shit! Oh my god, this is… I can’t believe my little baby sister got her first _I Love You-_ relationship before me! I’m so happy for you,” Mila gushes.

“You’ve never said ‘I love you’ in a relationship?” Nastya asks, surprised.

“Honey, you’ve seen the boys I date. No, none of them have particularly inspired me to say I love you.”

“What about Sara?”

Mila sighs. “I… She doesn’t want that. Even if I said it to her—and I’m not sure if that’s even what I feel for her—I don’t think it would like, magically change her mind. I’m kind of trying to steer away from any kind of emotional attachments to her, because I don’t want to set myself up for heartbreak, you know?”

“Yeah, that makes sense. But I mean, you two are close friends, right? I’m sure if you decided that you love her and told her, she wouldn’t like, blacklist you or anything. I think she would understand, even if she doesn’t reciprocate.”

“God, give you what, three months in a relationship and you become this wisdom-spouting romance wizard. Does Otabek have any cute friends he can hook me up with?”

“Save yourself from long distance and find someone here,” Nastya groans. “During the season we have like, no time together. I mean, Beka will be at Rostelecom, but we’ll both be competing, you know? It’s not like there’s tons of free time.”

“Yeah. But at least we live in the wonderful twenty-first century, and you don’t have to wait three weeks to receive a hand-written letter from each other.”

“You can’t Skype a goddamn hug, Baba.”

“No, but you can hear each other’s voices and see each other’s faces pretty much whenever you want. That’s something to be grateful for.”

“I guess. It’s still shitty, though.”

“Oh, for sure,” Mila laughs.

 

After the rest day, Nastya is feeling pretty good about practice.

She’s ready to work hard, she has Key’s pep talk from Instagram pretty much memorized, and she spent her evening listening to her Short Program music and just dancing however she wanted to it. She imagines what her new costume will look like, and how she can tie it all together.

Once she’s warmed up and ready to practice her routines, she closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths.

She focuses on herself only, and imagines that the rink is empty.

She lets the weight of Liliya’s stare ebb away, and the gentle scrape of Yuuri’s skates across the ice fade, too.

 _Be yourself on the ice_ , Key’s words resonate in her head.

She imagines her Short Program music, and pushes into the beginning of her routine.

Only ten seconds in, though, she’s not happy with the energy she has.

She resets, starts the program again.

This time, she makes it about thirty seconds, right before her first jump, but she’s imagining the way she _wants_ her body to move, and it’s just not following her directions.

She growls a little in frustration, resets, and starts again.

She gets a little further each time, and though she’s not completely happy with it, she feels like it’s progress.

Yakov calls her over when she’s about three-quarters through the program on her dozenth run through.

“Yuri, it’s looking better,” he begins. Nastya makes a face at the name, but she’s not looking at Yakov, so she doesn’t think he notices.

She’s started playing with the idea of telling Yakov, honestly. It would make it a lot easier. The bigger her inner circle of people who _know_ is, the safer she feels, surprisingly. One less person to slip up in front of, she supposes.

Yakov gives her his gruff words of advice about some technical aspect, which she agrees was lacking, but that wasn’t where her focus was. She’d rather make technical mistakes during this practice and get the _feeling_ right than skate a perfect technical and demolish her presentation.

“Yuri, are you listening?” Yakov barks.

“Yeah, watch the edges,” she says distractedly, hoping she guessed right.

“I wasn’t talking about edges.”

 _Shit_.

“Weight distribution?”

“No.”

“Free leg?”

“For once, no. Yura, I was asking about your grandfather.”

Yakov wasn’t talking about skating? What?

“Oh, uh, what about him?”

“I wanted to know if he’s coming to see you at Rostelecom, because I can get him a security badge, if you’d like. I need to tell the officials by the end of the week, so find out, will you?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.”

She gets back to practicing for a few minutes, until Liliya calls her over.

“Get your dance shoes, I want to try something,” Liliya says, leaving no room for argument.

They find themselves in the studio, and Nastya stands awkwardly in the middle of the floor, awaiting further instruction.

“What does passion mean to you?” Liliya asks. “Where are you drawing inspiration from?”

Nastya purses her lips. “It means sacrifice,” she says after a long minute.

This isn’t the answer Liliya was expecting, but she doesn’t seem upset. “Tell me more.”

“Passion comes from throwing yourself into something, right? So naturally, it means that you have to give up other things for the one that you’re passionate about.”

“And what have you given up, Yuri?”

 _Myself_.

She can’t say it.

“Everything,” she says instead.

“No,” Liliya corrects. “You have not given up everything; you have friends, family, interests. Be specific, Yuri. What have you sacrificed?”

_My identity. My comfort. My freedom._

She takes a deep breath. “Myself.”

“Keep going.”

She wants to get it all off her chest, really, she does. But what will Liliya say?

But you know what? _Fuck it_ , Nastya thinks. She’s just going to start talking, and whatever comes out of her damn mouth will come out.

“I… I don’t feel like I can be myself on the ice right now,” she begins.

“What’s holding you back?”

“I’m… not who I thought I was. Or I guess, I’m not who people think I am. I used to be, in a way, but now I’m growing and changing and learning and I’m… not the Yuri Plisetsky of old.”

“But why does that mean you can’t be yourself? People change, Yuri. You are young and have many years ahead of you yet to discover even more changes. It seems to me that sacrificing your own identity for the sake of passion is counter-productive. Passion, drive, these things are part of you, are they not?”

“Yes,” Nastya replies emphatically.

“Where does your passion come from?”

Nastya feels like they’re talking in circles.

“Within myself?” she tries.

“Good. So when you skate, Yuri, you must show the audience what is within you if you wish to convey passion. You cannot hide yourself and be true to your dancing.”

“But I have to hide it,” Nastya says desperately. “I can’t… I can’t lose this.”

Liliya pauses, narrowing her eyes. “Lose what, Yuri?”

“God, stop saying ‘Yuri’,” Nastya snaps.

“What can’t you lose?” Liliya repeats.

“Everything! My career, skating, my whole way of life!”

“Unless you are about to confess to being a violent criminal, I highly doubt—”

“I’m a girl!” Nastya says, and she realizes there are tears in her eyes.

Liliya is the first person she’s told who has any kind of real authority over her. Nastya doesn’t really fear prejudice or rejection, exactly, but she’s still scared. What if Liliya outs her to the ISU? What if she belittles the situation? Or—

“I see.”

Nastya’s blood runs cold. She can’t look at Liliya’s face.

Did she just fuck up?

She needs Yuuri and Viktor, she needs to feel safe.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

“I cannot say I understand exactly what you’re feeling, but I think I understand enough,” Liliya says. Her voice is even, neutral. She doesn’t sound angry; heavens knows Nastya has pissed her off enough to know _that_ tone. But there’s something in her manner that has Nastya still frozen.

 “I had a friend once, an amazing ballerina,” Liliya says, as though she were describing the weather. “We had danced together at the academy, been roommates even. One day, my friend told me quite simply that she was not a she. And from that day forward, I knew him only as Lyosha, and he went on to be one of the most successful principal danseurs of the Bolshoi.”

Lyosha… no. Could it be?

“Alexei Sidorov is trans?” Nastya whispers.

“It’s actually fairly common knowledge, though he did transition before he became truly famous,” Liliya says. “What I am trying to say, is that it can be done. There is no reason to hide yourself, not when both you and your skating are clearly suffering for it.”

Nastya is reeling. One of the most amazing male danseurs in recent history was just like _her_.

“You know I am not one to share emotions easily, but I will support you in this in every way,” Liliya says.

Nastya nods and blinks the tears back.

“Now, why don’t you dance for me? Show me your true feelings, your true identity.”

Nastya takes a deep breath, lets down her hair, and prepares to start her short program, taking her starting position.

“No, not the program; that will come later,” Liliya interrupts. “Just dance. Dance for _you_.”

A lightness fills her heart, and Nastya knows exactly what she wants to do. Her body begins to move, and it feels like she doesn’t even have to tell it what to do.

She doesn’t need music, not when she’s making such a beautiful rhythm with her body.

She feels the arch of her back, the extension of her arms all the way down to the delicate poise of her fingertips.

Her jumps are strong, her limbs flexible and extended elegantly.

She doesn’t know how long she dances, but eventually, she feels her moment winding down. She reigns herself in, finds a final pose, soft but strong.

She’s breathing hard, and her veins are singing with the high of a good performance, even for an audience of one.

After a moment, Liliya tells her in a stern but proud voice, “it is such a shame that the ice called to you; you would have been a great ballerina. Another life, perhaps.”

“Liliya,” Nastya says. “My name is Anastasiya Nikolaevna Plisetskaya, and I am going to dance on the ice like no one has ever seen.”

“I expect nothing less,” Liliya says, and perhaps for the first time, Nastya sees a genuine smile on the woman’s face. “Now, I assume that you have not told Yakov all of this.”

“God, no,” Nastya says.

“Do you not plan to then?”

“I… eventually, yeah. I was thinking about it earlier. I wasn’t exactly planning on telling you right now, either. But… that’s just how it happened. I don’t know.”

“Well perhaps it needs to ‘just happen’ with your coach, yes? How do you expect him to coach you well if he doesn’t even know your name?”

Nastya smiles. “You did pretty well just now, before I told you.”

“But we have a different rapport, Anastasiya. I have always treated you differently than Yakov treats you. He treats you like a wild, teenage boy who must be tamed into art. But you are in fact, a wild young lady who must be made to reveal her art to the world.”

“I don’t know about revealing to the world yet,” Nastya says quickly.

“I’m not just speaking of ‘coming out’,” Liliya assures her. “But whatever name the world knows you by, you must be willing to show them your art. Your dancing is your art, and it is part of who you are. You cannot be true to your dancing if you are not true to yourself.”

Nastya smiles, thinking of Key. “A friend of mine told me something very similar.”

“I’m glad. Now, show me your routine here, then I’ll let you get back to the ice.”

Nastya takes her position, flipping her hair over her shoulder to get it a little bit out of her face.

When she begins her opening step sequence, she searches for that lightness, that freedom she had felt before when she was just improvising. It comes, albeit slowly, and when she finds it, she pushes for it further, chasing after the sensation.

Liliya calls out little reminders, to check her form. “Extend! Lower your shoulders!”

Nastya doesn’t quite get all the technical things down, and it’s always different on the dance floor than on the ice, but this, right now, is probably the best run-through she’s ever done of this program.

When she finishes, Liliya gives a sharp nod. “Back on the ice now. Just like that. And please, do consider having a conversation with Yakov soon.”

“I will,” Nastya says, and she starts to put her hair back up.

“Leave it down,” Liliya says. “You dance better when it’s loose.”

“But it’ll get all tangled and gross.”

“Dear god,” Liliya rolls her eyes at the pathetic whine. “Weren’t you the one who told me that passion is about sacrifice? Sacrifice ten minutes of your time later today to comb it out.”

“Fine,” Nastya says. “But just for today! I’m not going to compete with my hair down, so I shouldn’t get too used to it.”

“Fair enough. But if you get sloppy again, I’m yanking that elastic right out of your pretty hair.”

 

Nastya returns to the ice, and Liliya stays a few minutes to watch to make sure she retains the energy she had in the studio.

At some point over the next half hour, Liliya leaves, but Nastya still feels like there’s a pair of hawk’s eyes watching her.

She looks around, and notices Ivan is watching her very, very intently.

“Can I help you?” she asks, shooting him a dirty look.

“You’re so… Your skating is amazing,” he says. “I wish I was that flexible. Can you do an over-split?”

“Of course,” Nastya says. “This kind of flexibility is earned, though. You have to work at it. _Hard_. Every fucking day.”

“I will, I’ll work hard! I want to be just like you, Yuri!” Ivan says enthusiastically.

“Gross. Don’t be like me. Be your own person. You’ll never win if you’re just a cheap knockoff of someone else.”

And on that note, she skates away to find Viktor and Yuuri, who are taking a short water break.

“You were in the studio a while today,” Yuuri says. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just had a little heart to heart with Liliya,” Nastya says, raising her eyebrows suggestively to try to convey that she came out to Liliya.

“Oh? I didn’t know you were planning on… that,” Yuuri says carefully.

“I wasn’t, but what the fuck, right? What’s that dumb hashtag? YOLO?”

“That expression is embarrassing,” Viktor complains.

“That’s just because you’re old,” Nastya fires back.

“Everything went okay, though?” Yuuri asks, trying to stay on topic.

“Yeah. She thinks I should tell Yakov soon, though. She basically said like, ‘how do you expect him to coach you when he doesn’t even know your name?’”

“That’s a fair point,” Viktor says. “But the choice is still yours, of course.”

“I know.”

“Well your skating is looking better today, from what I’ve seen. And of course, we watched the competition on TV. Your Free Skate really saved your Short Program,” Viktor says.

“No shit,” Nastya says. “My SP sucked ass. I got too caught up in my head. But uh, Mila’s aunt is helping me out with a new costume, actually. Which yeah, I know is totally superficial or whatever but I fucking hate that vest thing. Thanks a lot, by the way, Yuuri.”

“Hey, I suggested masculine, not wait-staff,” Yuuri defends.

“What’s the new outfit look like?” Viktor asks.

“It’s… purple. Actually, give me your phone, I’ll show you where we got the inspiration from.”

Nastya takes the proffered phone and pulls up an image search of “passion flower”.

“Ooh, I like it,” Viktor says, smiling. “It’s like a little alien flower.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Nastya says. “Anyway, it’s kind of a literal interpretation of my theme of ‘passion’, but it’s just a costume. And I don’t want both costumes to be red just because everyone and their goddamn cousin thinks red means passion.”

“So it’s purple, and will it have like, decorations to represent the spikey things?” Yuuri asks.

“Sort of. It won’t be that literal. I hope. Like I said, Mila’s aunt is making it.”

“When will you have it?”

“She said hopefully by the end of this week.”

“Ooh, I can’t wait to see it!” Viktor coos. “Purple is a good color for you, I think.”

“I look good in any color,” Nastya counters.

“Of course, darling,” Viktor smiles.

“Not me,” Yuuri says. “I look awful in warm colors. Especially yellow and orange, but I don’t like red so much either.”

“Nonsense, my dear Yuuri! You look beautiful in red! It brings out the blush in your cheeks!”

“ _Vitya_ ,” Yuuri complains.

“Ugh, you’re being gross. I’m leaving. Go get back to work, Katsudon. Stop making googly eyes at your dumb husband.”

“Jealousy is ugly, young lady,” Viktor scolds playfully. Suddenly, he realizes what he said, and covers his mouth in shock.

Nastya and Yuuri both look around furtively, but no one appears to be within earshot.

“Watch it,” she says menacingly.

“I’m so sorry,” Viktor says.

“Yeah, well. Don’t do it again.”

“Best behavior,” Viktor promises.

She skates away from him and decides to work through some jumps with her arms raised.

 

During cool downs, Nastya makes sure to show off how flexible she is where Ivan can see her. She puts a leg behind her head, just because she can.

“Have you seen those videos of people putting both legs behind their head and then trying to like, hobble around?” Ivan asks. “I bet you could do that.”

“Hey Ivan, quick question: what the _fuck_?” Nastya asks, a derisive snort of laughter accompanying.

“Well, have you ever tried it? It looks hilarious.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Nastya says, but she does in fact, try to put her other leg behind her head at the same time. It takes a minute to get both limbs situated comfortably, but she gets there.

“Now what?” she asks. “How the fuck am I supposed to move like this?”

“Well uh, most people drag themselves around with their arms?”

“Fucking hell,” Nastya says, and reaches out in front of her. Sure enough, she scoots forward, workout pants sliding across the hardwood of the conditioning room. “This is possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

“And I’m getting it all on video!” Mila snickers from the doorway.

“BABA!” Nastya yells, trying to untangle her limbs so she can chase after her cackling friend. “Post it and die!”

Nastya, long-legged and also not handicapped by a giggle fit, catches up to Mila quickly. They wrestle briefly, until Mila starts scratching like a cat, and Nastya decides it’s not worth it.

They both burst out into giggles.

Ivan finds them in the hallway, collapsed in a heap.

“You two are such a cute couple,” Ivan says.

Nastya and Mila stop laughing for a second, make eye contact with Ivan and then each other, and then burst out laughing even harder.

“Me? Dating _you_?” Nastya wheezes out.

“Me? Dating _you?_ ” Mila throws right back.

They dissolve right back into giggles.

“Wait, you’re not together?” Ivan asks, confused.

“Oh, honey, no,” Mila says, wiping a tear from her eye.

“We’re like _family_ ,” Nastya manages. “What even gave you that impression?”

“I dunno, you’re just so close.”

“No. Viktor and Yuuri are _close_. We’re... not like that.”

“Viktor and Yuuri? Like, _Coach_ Viktor and his student?”

“Well I mean yeah, but there’s also that tiny detail where they’re married and share a last name,” Nastya says casually.

“They’re _married?_ ” Ivan asks. “How did I miss that? I _thought_ I saw Viktor kiss Yuuri’s hand once, but Georgi said it was nothing!”

“Did he say it like, ‘pfha, that’s _nothing_ , as in ‘that’s hardly the worst thing they’ve done on the ice’?” Mila asks. “Because that sounds much more like something Georgi would say.”

“Seriously, where have you been?” Nastya asks. “They’re all over each other. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, be nice. Just because _you_ can’t hang all over your _special someone_ all the time doesn’t mean you have to begrudge those who can and do,” Mila teases.

“Shut up, Baba.”

“Oh, so you _do_ have a girlfriend,” Ivan says, and Nastya swears he sounds disappointed. “Is she a skater too?”

“No offense, but we don’t really know each other,” Nastya says carefully. “I like to keep my private life private.”

“Oh, sorry. Of course,” Ivan says. “Well, uh, I think I’m done stretching, so I’m heading out. See you next practice.”

“Right. See ya,” Mila says.

Nastya waves.

“He’s going to shit a _brick_ when you come out publicly,” Mila says quietly once Ivan’s well out of earshot.

“ _God,_ how is someone that oblivious? They call each other stupid pet names all the time, too.”

“In Ivan’s defense, those pet names aren’t usually in Russian.”

“Fair. But _still_. He’s only seen Viktor kiss Yuuri’s hand? Once? Are you kidding me? How is it even possible to be a skater at this rink and not see them engage in PDA at least once a day?”

“We should invite him out to drinks some time,” Mila laughs. “Really give him a show.”

“Jesus, don’t traumatize the poor kid.”

“It’s funny hearing you call someone else a kid; you’re not even nineteen.”

“Yeah, and you’re _so old_ ,” Nastya laughs. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. I have a date with my bathtub.”

 

Back at her apartment, Nastya finds herself faced with a daunting task.

She has all the necessary supplies: a fruity smelling cream, and a sleek silver razor. (It’s a men’s razor, but it was actually Mila’s suggestion: “Women’s razors are shit and more expensive than men’s for no reason. Use a men’s razor.”)

Today is the day Nastya shaves her legs and armpits.

She has such thin, whispy blonde body hair that she hasn’t bothered with it before, but it’s just another thing she can add to her growing list of ways she feels more feminine.

She’s already showered, so she’s nice and clean, and she used an exfoliant on her legs to make sure the razor wouldn’t catch on dead skin and cut her, again thanks to Mila’s suggestion.

She starts with her armpits, because it’s a lot less real estate to cover. She grimaces at how long the hair is, and sets to removing it.

It sticks to the razor in clumps, and Nastya keeps making faces at it. Wet, clumpy hair is gross. She cleans the razor after each swipe, watching the hair rinse down the drain. She hopes it doesn’t clog her pipes.

When her underarms are smooth, she runs her fingers over the skin experimentally. It kind of tickles, but it also feels really good.

Inspired, she sets to covering a leg in shaving cream, finds a decent position, and shaves a long stripe from ankle to knee.

It doesn’t remove all the hair at once, because the blade gets jammed full of hair pretty fast, so she cleans the blade and passes over the same stripe one more time. She repeats the process on an adjacent stripe, going slowly enough that she hopes she doesn’t cut herself.

She doesn’t grow facial hair, really, so she has almost no experience shaving whatsoever.

Things are going okay until she realizes she doesn’t know how to shave the backs of her legs. She contorts herself into a weird imitation of an Ina Bauer, and finds something that works, until she feels a sharp prick.

“Dammit!” she hisses, and presses hard against the little welt of blood that’s beading on the back of her calf.

When the blood stops, she continues shaving as carefully as possible. Her back is aching, and she’s kind of cold, since she’s half wet from her shower but standing in the open air, naked.

This sucks.

After who knows how long, she finally finishes the first leg, and rinses off the excess shaving cream.

And suddenly, all the aching and the nick are _so worth it_ , because her skin has literally _never_ felt as amazing as it does in this moment.

She takes a moment to simply marvel at how smooth and soft her leg is, and then she eagerly sets to shaving the other leg.

This time, she has a slightly better idea of what she’s doing, though now she has to reach across her body to use her dominant hand, or trust the razor in her left.

She experiments with both, and decides she’s ambidextrous enough to manage with the left hand.

After what feels like an eternity, and in truth is close to an hour, Nastya emerges from the bath with two clean-shaven legs.

She rubs them together like a cricket, and squeals at the sensation. _Why didn’t she shave sooner?_ This is incredible!

The first thing she thinks to do is, naturally, yell about it to Otabek.

She calls his phone, but he doesn’t answer. No matter: she’ll leave a message.

“Beka, oh my _god_ , I just shaved my legs and holy _shit_ , they feel amazing I can’t wait to see you in person so you can feel them, god this is amazing, you have no idea. Okay, love you bye!”

Next up, she calls Mila, who knew Nastya’s plans to shave today.

“Mila I am in _love_ with the way my skin feels,” she says as soon as Mila picks up.

“Ah, isn’t it incredible? I mean, the upkeep is a pain in the ass, but in my opinion, _totally_ worth it.”

“This is truly an amazing thing. I mean, like, in some ways it’s sort of oppressive to expect women to always shave, but if this is what it’s all about… I don’t really have any complaints.”

“Oh, give it a few years. You’ll experiment with how long you can let it go before it becomes unbearable; if you’re still long distance, you’ll start neglecting it until you see your boyfriend in person again. I only shave when I’m looking to get laid.”

“So you shave every day?” Nastya quips.

“Jackass,” Mila returns. “Also, another pro-tip? You can usually get away with shaving knees-down. Most of the time, people won’t see your thighs unless you’re like, going swimming.”

“What about skating, though? You wear such short skirts.”

“Yeah, but I have tights on. My leg hair isn’t thick enough to show through, so I don’t do my thighs if I’m low on time or just don’t feel like it.”

“Oh my god, I just thought about how my fleece-lined leggings are gonna feel against my bare, hairless legs,” Nastya says suddenly.

“Go try them on!” Mila laughs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, girl.”

“Yeah, yeah. Later,” Nastya says, and dashes to her dresser to find the leggings.

She pulls them on and sighs contentedly.

“This is why I was put on this earth,” she says aloud to no one.

 

The next day at practice, Nastya walks into the rink with her workout pants rolled up to her knees. “Oi!” she calls out to where Viktor, Yuuri, and Mila are standing around and chatting.

They turn to look at her, Viktor raising an eyebrow at the rolled-up pants.

“Feel my legs,” she instructs, and holds her leg up high.

Mila laughs, but reaches out to pet Nastya’s leg.

Viktor and Yuuri don’t seem to get it, so she grabs Yuuri’s hand, since he’s closer, and slaps it onto her leg. “Feel how smooth it is.”

Viktor follows suit, and soon enough all three of them are stroking her leg and commenting on how nice it feels.

Yakov, of course, walks in right at this moment.

“Do I even _want_ to know?” he asks, resigned to his fate of having weird skaters under his tutelage.

“I shaved my legs,” Nastya tells him, not caring at all. _Is this how I’m going to come out to Yakov?_ A little voice in the back of her head asks.

But there’s safety in numbers, and except for Otabek, there’s no one she trusts more than the three people who are currently stroking her leg.

“I see,” Yakov says, and turns away from the group. “On the ice in twenty!” he calls over his shoulder.

They grumble, but Nastya lowers her leg, rolls down her pants, and they set to warming up and stretching.

 

By the end of the week, Nastya feels like it’s time. She’s talked it over with Otabek, Viktor, Yuuri, Mila, Liliya, _and_ Key. There’s only so much procrastinating she can do on this once she’s made the decision.

It’s time to tell Yakov.

She makes sure to really throw herself into practice to make it a good one. He should be in good spirits, since both Nastya and Mila made a special effort to listen and behave today.

Ivan was none the wiser, of course, but he’s a people-pleaser anyway, and he lives and dies by the approval of Yakov.

So, after practice, they do their cool downs and stretching and Nastya goes to Yakov’s office to ask for a word.

He gestures for her to come in, and she shuts the door behind her.

“What’s this about, Yuri?” Yakov asks. He seems confused and maybe a little worried about whatever she’s about to spring on him.

“I need to talk to you about something, uh, personal,” she says. “It’s important to my skating, but it’s still kinda personal. Well, really personal, I guess.”

“You’re not in any trouble, are you?” Yakov asks warily.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Good. Well then tell me what it is.”

“I’m… uh…” Nastya mutters. She’s never sure whether she should just spit it out or try to ease into it. So far, she’s mostly ended up spitting it out. Maybe with Yakov she can have a little more tact?

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my, um, identity,” she starts. “And how maybe the way I’ve always presented myself isn’t really who I am.”

Yakov furrows his brow but waits for her to continue.

“A few months ago, I started… experimenting. With um, expressing my identity. Who I feel I really am. At first, I just did it for myself, in private. But I gradually started telling close friends about it, and uh, it’s been good so far. I’m actually really relieved. It feels really good to be myself.

“So I told Liliya about it earlier this week, and we decided that it’s um, important for you to know, too. Because it’s affected my skating. I’m sure you’ve noticed my style this season has been… inconsistent.”

“Yes, I have noticed,” Yakov agrees.

“Well, it’s because I’m trying to find the right balance between the Yuri everyone knows, and um… the Nastya that very few people do.”

“Who’s Nastya?” Yakov asks carefully.

“Me,” she says simply. “I’m not quite ready to come out publicly, yet. But um, I’m… My name is Anastasia now, and I would appreciate if you would refer to me as a girl.”

“I see,” Yakov says. “So you wish to be Anastasia at the rink, but publicly maintain Yuri?”

“Yes. For now. I’m not sure what the best move would be, professionally. I have a Canadian friend, Key Martin, who came out last year. We’ve talked a little about what it was like, how it happened, all that. They suggested I talk with you, a counselor, that kind of thing before making any public statements.”

“Well, okay. You’ll have to correct me if I say something wrong, though. And I agree that speaking with a counselor or someone with experience in this field would be a good idea. Perhaps Liliya would get in touch with Alexei…”

“She said she’d reach out to him,” Nastya confirms.

“Good. We’ll need resources. Do you plan to stay in the men’s division, then?”

“Well, honestly, I don’t think it would be fair for me to compete against cis women. My body is… stronger. I can do quads no problem. It’s not exactly an even playing field.”

“You always have to be the center of attention, don’t you?” Yakov asks with a chuckle. “A girl competing against a bunch of men… This will be interesting indeed.”

“Like I said, for now, keep it under wraps. Pretty much everyone at the rink knows, except for Ivan, and he’s an idiot.”

Yakov makes a face.

“Well he is. And I don’t care if he finds out, honestly, except like, I don’t want him to run his mouth, you know?”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Good luck with that. Anyway, so it’s just in public, at competitions, where you’ll need to remember that I’m still Yuri.”

“Please remind me, when the time comes,” Yakov grumbles.

“Alright,” Nastya agrees. “Do you, um, have any questions for me?”

Yakov thinks a minute. “No, no. I think it’s fine. We don’t need to do anything official yet. That’s when I’ll have questions.”

“Okay. Well, uh, good talk, and I’ll see you tomorrow for practice.”

“Yes. Good night, Yu—Anastasia,” Yakov says.

“G’night, Yakov.”

 

After her chat with Yakov, Nastya meets up with Mila to go pick up her new SP costume. Zhanna had called Mila earlier today to say it was ready, that it might just need a few adjustments, but Nastya should come in for a fitting.

They enter the dry cleaner’s and Zhanna greets them both with cheek kisses. Her husband, Sergei, is there today, too. He gives a wave but otherwise doesn’t say a thing.

“Okay, darling, are you ready to see the shirt? Oh, I hope it turned out how you like,” Zhanna frets.

“I’m sure it looks great,” Nastya says. “Besides, there’s absolutely no way it could look worse than my old outfit, so you’ve already won.”

“Well, I hope it’s more than just ‘better than that atrocity’. I hope you actually _like_ it,” Zhanna insists.

They head to the back work table, and Zhanna holds up the light purple shirt.

“Ta da!” she says, and looks at Nastya expectantly.

The shirt has long sleeves that end in a point, with a loop to go over her finger so it attaches to her hand. There is a diagonal pattern of darker purple ribbon that looks like flower petals scattered across the stomach. The neckline is a simple scoop, and the cut of the shirt looks like it flares out just slightly to give the illusion of a wider hip.

“It’s… incredible,” Nastya says after she takes it all in. “Can I try it on right now?”

“Yes, yes! Please do; I want to make sure the fit is good,” Zhanna says.

She shows Nastya the fitting room, which is little more than a closet, and she wrestles her shirt off to try the new costume on.

It’s snug, but the material stretches, so she gets it over her slim frame easily.

She exits the fitting room so she can move around in the shirt: lift her arms, twist, jump, to make sure the shirt won’t ride up or pull anywhere.

Amazingly, the fit is nearly perfect, and the fabric moves with her instead of fighting her. She doesn’t feel the urge to tug and readjust.

“Ah, Nastya! That looks so good on you!” Mila squeals. “Purple is a good complement to your hair, I think.”

“This is perfect, Zhanna; thank you so much,” Nastya says sincerely.

“Let me just have a look at that hem one more time,” Zhanna says, mumbling something to herself.

Nastya holds still while Zhanna nitpicks her creation, but with enough praise from both skaters, Zhanna finally decides it is in fact, good enough.

Nastya changes back to her street clothes, and folds the new costume up carefully. “My coach is gonna be surprised to see this, but I think he’ll agree that it’s much more fitting.”

“You didn’t tell Yakov you’re changing outfits?” Mila asks.

“What does he care?” Nastya shrugs.

“Eh, true enough.”

The girls thank Zhanna again, and though Zhanna refuses payment, Mila has already confirmed that she will slip Sergei the check for the work Zhanna did, and he won’t complain.

 

Back at home, Nastya decides to pull up a search for a therapist that she can talk to about her future public coming-out. She reads a few biographies before she finds a therapist who specializes in LGBT issues.

It’s after normal business hours, but there’s an online contact form, so Nastya fills it out, hinting at her situation but not revealing who she is. She signs the message as Anastasia P., which is both true and ambiguous.

She writes down a couple other names of therapists who have LGBT experience, in case this first one doesn’t work out.

Nastya also sends a quick DM to Key, telling them about how things went with Yakov, her new shirt, and starting her search for a counselor.

              From: **Key**

              I’m really glad to hear things went well with everything! Can’t wait to see your new costume.

Best advice I can give for meeting with a therapist is really trust your instincts. You’ll know if it’s a good fit or not. And that’s not to say that the therapist is bad or anything, it just means you don’t fit together. Therapy is kind of like dating, in that sense lol

From: **Nastya**

What kinds of questions will they ask? I mean, will I have to like, justify my identity?

 

From: **Key**

If they’re any good, you won’t have to justify it. It’ll be more like a walk-through of how you figured things out. Just be truthful and say whatever you’re comfortable with. They’ll probably ask you about things like how long you’ve known, how long you’ve been out in any sense, if you’re on hormones… that kind of thing

 

From: **Nastya**

I haven’t even thought about hormones…

 

From: **Key**

Oh, honey. Let me send you some resources. Not that you have to go on them; you’re still very much a girl with or without. But it’s something I think every trans person at least thinks about.

 

Key sends several links with information about HRT for transwomen, and Nastya opens them up successively, and reads quickly through the basics: the reasons people choose to go on HRT, the effects, both good and bad, of the treatment.

It’s all in English, so Nastya struggles with some of the terminology, praying that those really are cognates, and the health insurance section isn’t helpful at all since it’s Canadian, but she takes mental notes anyway. She might have to get Yuuri’s help on this; his English is better than hers.

She thanks Key, and decides that a bath is in order.

She picks out a bath bomb and settles in for a good soak and Instagram.

 

Saturday morning practice means barre with Liliya.

Her hair is pulled up into a strict ballerina bun, so tight it almost hurts, and she’s wearing her regular dance clothes.

Now that Nastya is, well, _herself_ at the rink, her training shifts to accommodate her better.

Liliya gives her a black leotard and a pale pink wrap-skirt, saying that her “slovenly” loose shirts and leggings won’t do for a proper ballerina.

Liliya is no less strict, no less uncompromising in the ballet studio, not that Nastya expected anything different.

If anything, Liliya is even more harsh. Was this how she was with all her girls? Was Nastya being held to a _higher_ standard because she was a girl in Liliya’s eyes now?

“ _Hips,_ Anastasiya!” Liliya barks.

Nastya struggles to rotate her pelvis in correctly; she’s overly conscious of how she’s dressed and it’s distracting her from good form.

“You are a flower, Anastasiya. Show me your delicacy,” Liliya commands.

Yes, Nastya was the one to introduce the idea of the passion flower, but she really doesn’t think of herself as delicate. She makes a face at Liliya.

“What is that awful grimace for?” Liliya asks.

“I don’t want to be delicate,” Nastya mumbles.

“Speak up!”

“I don’t want to be delicate!” Nastya yells.

“You are a flower, no?”

“Yeah, but this is like, a badass flower. It’s not like baby’s breath that will lose a petal if you look at it too hard. It’s spiky and cool and a little punk. I want to show _that_ when I dance.”

“Punk?” Liliya says, pursing her lips.

“I know that’s not really a ballet style,” Nastya says. “But like, just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I lost my edge. Like Yuri Plisetsky was a tough dude; Anastasiya Plisetskaya is a tough chick.”

“I see. Well, ‘punk,’ as you say, is really more an attitude, no? You can still maintain good technique at the barre.”

“Yeah, but you keep telling me to be delicate, soft. How does that mix with being tough?”

“That is something we shall have to experiment with, I believe. There is a balance, Anastasiya. You cannot always be aggressive and ready to rip someone’s face off. You must also be soft, when appropriate.”

Nastya wrinkles her nose at the word “soft”.

“And stop making those disgusting faces,” Liliya chides. “Now, back into position, if you please.”

The rest of her barre practice, Nastya pushes back against Liliya’s instructions to soften herself.

She pulls up YouTube on her phone during her lunch break and looks for “badass ballet performances”. She’s hoping to find something she considers tough and cool, but still traditional enough ballet that Liliya accepts it.

The first few videos aren’t even ballet, featuring all sorts of modern dancing and hip hop. They’re probably cool, but not what Nastya needs right now.

She modifies her search to just “badass ballet”, and at least this time the videos are about ballerinas, though one of the top search results has a pole so maybe it’s not quite ballet, either. There’s a youtuber whose name is “Ballerina Badass”, so Nastya checks out her videos. They’re mostly vlogs on the life of a ballerina, which isn’t interesting at all.

Frustrated, she tries another search: “cool ballet moves”. A few are just people showing off or offering tutorials to beginners, but she finds a compilation video of jumps, and watches a few amateurs do a bunch of spins.

Whoop de do.

Frustrated, she closes out of her search tab.

How can she combine grace and beauty and femininity with toughness, attitude, and her own personal flair?

She maybe needs another opinion, one more comfortable expressing femininity on the ice. Mila may not be into ballet like Nastya, but she knows how to be feminine without being a delicate little flower, too.

“Yo, Baba, got a minute?” Nastya asks when Mila picks up the phone.

“Anything for you, lil sis,” Mila says cheerfully.

“So Liliya is like, going all in, one hundred percent, on this feminine flower thing. And that’s not exactly what I want to show, but I don’t know how to show what I want to? So I’m looking for some advice on being feminine without being a fucking pushover.”

“Well, the short, easy answer here is, do what comes naturally,” Mila starts. “You _are_ naturally feminine because you’re a girl; and you’re also naturally a punk ass little gremlin. Just let it flow organically.”

“Excuse you, I am not a _gremlin_ ,” Nastya says indignantly.

“You’re a little bit of a gremlin,” Mila says. “Look, my point is, yeah, you’ve been working really hard to exude manly dude vibes recently. Let go of that. What’s there underneath? That’s who _you_ are, Nastya. Show that, not some pseudo-macho bullshit front that you’ve constructed.

“In the future, sure, you may want to get more nuanced to show different emotions, but your theme this year is passion. That’s about showing your true colors, your enthusiasm, your energy. Just let it all hang out, as it were.”

“You may be onto something,” Nastya says after a moment.

“I’d like to think so,” Mila says, and Nastya can hear how smug she is.

“Do you have some free time tomorrow? I kinda want to work on this without Liliya breathing down my neck, but like, also have another perspective, you know?”

“Sure, I can make some time tomorrow,” Mila promises.

 

The next morning, Nastya wakes up determined. She doesn’t roll around in bed for half an hour like she usually does, but instead gets up and sets to doing her hair and a little bit of makeup, just to reinforce that today she gets to be a girl, dammit.

She picks out a pair of zebra print leggings and one of her favorite tops from her “girl” wardrobe, instead of her usual Yuri get-up for practice.

(She may have seen Mila wearing a similar shirt to practice and instantly envied the long-sleeves, bare-midriff look, and bought her own. Yeah, that’s exactly what she did.)

She does her hair back in two French braids that join together to form a loose pony tail in the back; it’ll be out of her face, but still flow around nicely enough that she’ll feel free.

At Mila’s, they have a light breakfast, and chat a little about program elements and technicalities, and by nine forty-five they’re out the door and walking to the rink.

Some guy wolf whistles at them, and Mila flips them off. Nastya offers some choice insults, and the guy backs off.

“Sorry, ladies, just wanted to let you know that you’re looking good today.”

“We know we look good; we don’t need some asshole on the street to give us his opinion,” Mila says.

“Damn, okay,” the guy says.

Nastya sneers one more time for good measure, and the guy draws back.

Pleased, Nastya continues on, and she and Mila laugh about it the rest of the way to the rink.

“God, I had always heard that that happens, but it’s never happened _to_ me, you know?”

“Welcome to the life of a girl, Nastya. It ain’t all fun and games.”

“Well, I think you straightened him out pretty well,” Nastya comments.

They walk into the rink, and it’s pretty empty. There’s the receptionist who gives them a friendly wave, and a custodial worker sweeping the hallway to the locker rooms.

Since Mila really isn’t a dancer, they decide to warm up and then head straight for the ice, instead of the studio.

They help each other stretch, then hit the ice for warm ups.

When they’re ready, Mila suggests that instead of jumping right into her programs, Nastya start by just improvising and messing around; doing whatever feels good, letting out whatever she wants to.

They put on some fun music, and the both of them just mess around with step sequences and spins and ice dancing moves.

Finally, when she feels like she’s in the right mindset, Nastya asks Mila to stand off to the side, and she starts her Short Program.

She doesn’t think too much about the technical elements: her muscle memory will cover most of it, and she can tighten that up later.

Instead, she focuses on feeling the rhythm and flow of her movements, the stretch of her spine, the sway of her hips.

She flubs a step sequence when she goes a little overboard, but she recovers enough and still nails her jump.

Mila tosses out encouragements as she goes, and honestly it’s feeling pretty good.

When she strikes her final pose, Mila slow claps.

“That was pretty good, girl,” she says. “I mean, technically you slipped up a little, and you’ll need to finesse some of that hip movement because it got a _little_ ridiculous in the middle, but that was femme and that was workin’ it.”

“It felt good, too,” Nastya says, drinking from her water bottle. “Any tips?”

Mila goes through a few steps, coaching Nastya on how the women’s style varies just slightly from the men’s, or how she can move her arms just a little differently and achieve a more feminine style.

“I don’t want you to like, lose points though,” Mila says. “We’ll have to ask Yakov if doing the women’s versions in the men’s bracket would result in deductions. I mean, it’s pretty much just stylistic, not technical, but better to be safe than sorry.”

“True,” Nastya agrees.

They test out a few different moves, altering Nastya’s choreography just a bit, when someone else joins them on the ice.

“Hey, I thought I was the only crazy one who came in on Sunday mornings,” Ivan says, skating over to where the two girls are.

Nastya is a little nervous to see him, because she doesn’t know if Yakov has talked to him yet, and she’s definitely not dressed or acting like ‘Yuri’ right now. She tries to play it cool, deciding that she’ll only say something if he brings it up.

“Is it even morning still?” Nastya asks.

“Eleven thirty is technically morning,” Ivan confirms.

“Well, we’re almost done here, so the ice is all yours,” Mila says.

“No, you don’t have to leave,” Ivan says.

“Really, we’ve been here for over an hour, and this isn’t really a practice session,” Nastya says. “We’re just kind of messing around.”

“Oh, okay,” Ivan says. “Well you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Mila and Nastya say.

The girls mess around a little bit, competing to see who can spin longer, whose Biellmann is better, and so on.

They kind of forget about Ivan on the other end of the rink, until he skates back over to them.

“Yuri, can you help me with a toe loop? I’m having a tough time on the landing,” he says.

Okay, so either Yakov hasn’t talked to Ivan, or he’s an even bigger idiot than previously thought.

“Ivan, has uh, Yakov talked to you? Since Friday?” Nastya asks.

“No, why?”

“Ah, okay. Well, I guess I’ll tell you, then. I’m not going by Yuri anymore,” she begins. “I mean publicly, yeah, and legally that’s still my name, but around the rink everyone else calls me Anastasia.”

Ivan looks bewildered. “Are you in witness protection?” he asks in a stage whisper.

“What? No, where did you even—Look, I’m trans, Ivan. I’m a girl. So don’t say anything like, publicly, but like, you’re the only other person at the rink who didn’t know. So now you do.”

“Oooh,” he says. “Suddenly you not dating Mila makes sense. Unless you were lesbians. Which like, hey, no judgement—”

“Ivan, stop talking,” Nastya says.

“Right, sorry.”

“So what’s wrong with your toe loop?” she asks, already regretting offering her help but eager to end this conversation.

He can’t seem to articulate the problem, so she asks him to just show her.

He does a triple, first, and the landing is decent enough, but when he does his quad, he over-rotates and lands on his ass.

“Well, that needs work,” Nastya deadpans. “You way over-rotated. It’s just a quad, there’s no need to launch yourself into fucking space.”

 **“** God, listen to you, what a snob: ‘Just a quad’,” Mila laughs.

“Oh hush,” Nastya says with an eyeroll. “Look, your takeoff is really the problem here, not the landing,” she adds, turning to Ivan. “Watch.”

She goes and gathers up enough speed, and executes a pretty damn good quad toe loop, if she does say so herself.

“There’s no need for all that wind up,” she says as she rejoins the other skaters.

“Let me try again,” Ivan says, and he skates off.

It takes him a few more tries to trust that he has enough speed and height that he doesn’t need to throw _quite_ so much torque into his quads, and he’s doing better after about ten minutes.

“Alright, you’re good on your own now,” Nastya says. “I’m tired and hungry, so I’m gonna head out. Later, Ivan.”

“You can call me Vanya, you know,” he says.

Nastya doesn’t make a habit of calling people by their short form names, because she doesn’t really consider herself friends with that many Russians. She only calls Viktor Vitya to annoy him or to make fun of his gooey relationship with Yuuri, and Mila’s name is already a short form (and she calls her Baba, anyway).

She realizes the slight hypocrisy here, since most of her closest contacts call her Nastya instead of her full name Anastasiya, but she doesn’t think she and Ivan are really that close yet.

“Maybe,” she says after too long a pause.

Mila heads out with her, and they split up to go have lunch at their own apartments.

After lunch, Nastya calls Otabek, to update him and to see how he’s doing in preparation for Rostelecom, only three weeks away now.

“You look cute,” Otabek says when Nastya’s video feed pops up.

She tosses her hair dramatically. “I always look cute.”

“Yes, you do. Okay, you look like you took extra care to be cute today.”

“I am officially out to everyone at the rink, except for like, I dunno, the receptionist, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t give a shit.”

“Oh? So the new guy Igor knows too?”

Nastya laughs. “Ivan, not Igor. Who, by the way, asked me to call him Vanya today and I was like, uh…?”

“Aww, he wants to be your friend.”

“He’s a dumbass,” Nastya says, rolling her eyes. “He asked if I was in witness protection, and then thought Mila and I were both lesbians.”

“Witness protection? I mean, the lesbian comment is questionable, but understandable, I guess. But where did he get witness protection from?”

“Like, if I was in witness protection, rule one is you don’t talk about your identity? Like I said, he’s a dumbass.”

“How old is he again?”

“Like, seventeen, I think? Maybe he’s still sixteen. I don’t know when his birthday is.”

“Well, try to remember what you were like at that age, maybe?” Otabek suggests.

“What, angsty, aggressively masculine, and pissed at the world?” Nastya laughs. “At least I was never a dumbass.”

“A ray of sunshine, you are,” Otabek laughs.

“You bet your ass I am.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Hey,” Nastya says after a moment. “I miss you.”

Otabek smiles softly, but he looks sad. “I miss you too, babe.”

“Rostelecom in three weeks, though.”

“Three weeks. We can manage that, no problem.”

“Yeah. When I see you I’m definitely going to jump on you, just so you know,” Nastya says, trying to lighten the mood again.

“I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I seen too much Project Runway? Maybe. Humor me.  
> Inspo for the new shirt: https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GZBzr5EDF6o/WAwxSTKmsDI/AAAAAAABcnk/Alv2_epVO642_T4pb6ZlaeY-Xx5sCBnfgCLcB/s1600/ShomaUno_Japan.jpg


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick trip to Moscow to tell the last-- and perhaps most important-- person about her new identity. How will Nikolai Plisetsky take it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is like. A super short chapter. I'm gonna try to get the next one up tonight, too.

The next week of practice goes by in a blur. Yakov still stumbles over her name sometimes, especially when she does something to annoy him and he instinctively yells at her, but he corrects himself without prompting, so Nastya is sure he’ll get used to it soon.

Now that she’s out to everyone at the rink, she feels a lot less paranoid. She fully trusts everyone to guard her identity until the time comes – well, she’s not really sure how much she trusts Ivan, but so far he’s been harmless, so she thinks things are alright. (That’s not to say she won’t strangle him in his sleep if he outs her, though.)

Georgi had heard about it in passing, and he gave some ridiculous speech about how proud he was to know someone as brave and strong as her.

There was really only one other person that needed to know.

Grandpa.

She wants to say she hasn’t been putting off this discussion, but she doesn’t want to tell him over the phone: she wants him to see her. Even if he knew how to work Skype, she would rather do it in person.

Which means that she has to somehow find time to go visit him, preferably sooner rather than later, as she is fully expecting _some_ kind of rumors to sprout up after her showing at Rostelecom, now just two weeks away.

She decides that after her Saturday morning barre practice with Liliya, it’s time. She buys a train ticket and tells her grandfather that she’ll see him around quarter to five.

He’s excited to see her, asks her what the occasion is, and she just says she misses him (true) and it’s been too long since she visited (also true).

She does her best to remain focused at barre practice, but twenty minutes before they’re supposed to finish, Liliya rolls her eyes and tells her to just leave already.

“By the way,” Liliya says as Nastya is packing up, “Alyosha got back to me. He’d like to speak with you. He’s retired out in Yekaterinburg, so with your permission I’ll give him your contact information.”

“Yekaterinburg? Damn, what’s he doing all the way out there? Um, okay, yeah. You can give him my number, or email, whichever he wants.”

“Thank you; I’ll pass it along.”

 

Nastya is encouraged and also excited that she’s going to talk to _the_ Alexei Sidorov. He’s going to _personally_ contact her. Like, one of the biggest names in Russian ballet… no biggie.

She showers and grabs a quick lunch, packs an overnight bag, and heads to the train station in just enough time to catch her train.

It’s about three and a half hours, so she spends her time staring out the window, snap-chatting Otabek, and snoozing.

She’s dressed somewhat neutrally in a pair of medium wash skinny jeans, a pastel pink sweater (that’s actually from the men’s department), and her favorite black and purple leopard print shoes. Her hair is pulled back into a single French braid, and she’s not wearing any makeup. She’d like to avoid any kind of drama when she gets to her grandfather’s house, so presentation is key.

Nikolai Plisetsky is a stubborn old man, and while she has never doubted that he loves her, she must admit that she’s worried about this.

Her biggest fear is telling him that she’s changed her name: he was the one who named her when she was born.

Now, to tell him that she had gotten rid of that name? That she was no longer his Yuratchka? She wasn’t sure how that would go over.

She texts him when she gets to the station, but tells him not to come get her: it’s not worth the trouble when she can just walk.

Twenty-five minutes later, she arrives at her grandfather’s modest home, and rings the buzzer.

He lets her in immediately, and she schleps her bag up the single flight of stairs, where Nikolai waits for her with a broad smile. 

“Yuratchka, my boy!” Nikolai says, and Nastya manages a smile because _he doesn’t know,_ _you idiot_.

“Grandpa,” she greets back, and they hug, tight enough that it shows how much she’s missed him but not so much so as to hurt his back.

He welcomes her in, offers her tea, and hurries to turn of whatever television program he had been watching.

“I don’t get to see you much during the season,” he says. “This was a nice surprise, though a phone call would have been just fine.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a busy time for me, I mean like, a lot has been happening in my life. And I thought it was important to come see you, tell you what’s been going on, you know? In person.”

“All good things, I hope?” Nikolai asks.

“Yeah, um, I think so. I’ve made a new friend, for starters. They’re a Canadian skater, named Key Martin. We met at Skate America kind of by accident, and we had… a lot in common.”

“Oh, that’s very good,” Nikolai comments. “You’ve always been a bit resistant to new people. It’s good that you’re putting yourself out there, making new friends. Very good, Yuratchka.”

“And um, I’m seeing someone,” Nastya says carefully.

“You have a boyfriend?” Nikolai asks, an impish smile on his face.

“Yeah, I – wait, you know it’s a boyfriend and not a girlfriend?”

“Yuratchka, I practically raised you. I’ve known for quite some time that you weren’t interested in girls that way.”

“Oh. Well um… do you remember Otabek Altin? From Kazakhstan? You’ve talked to him on the phone before.”

“Yes, I remember. That’s the young man you’re dating?”

“Yup.”

She waits for _some_ kind of judgement, anything: he’s too rough, too old, _something_.

“I think dating a good friend is a good way to fall in love,” Nikolai says after a moment.

Nastya smiles, relieved. “Yeah, me too.”

“So it’s love, then?”

“I, uh, I mean, yeah? I think so. We’ve um, we’ve told each other and everything,” Nastya mutters, a little embarrassed.

“No need to be shy; love is a beautiful thing. I am glad you get to experience it, and so young. I didn’t know love until I was well into my twenties. Twenty-six, when I met your Babushka. And it wasn’t until I was twenty-eight that I knew it was love. You have almost a full decade more than I did: take advantage of it.”

Nastya rolls her eyes teasingly at how sappy her grandfather is being, but she appreciates the support.

“It’s kinda shitty—I mean, _annoying_ —that it’s long distance for now. We’re not really sure when, if ever, we could live in the same city,” she says.

“Well, that just means that when you do get to see each other, it will be that much more special. You have off seasons, too. Why not find some time then to visit each other?”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s how this all started. On the off season. So it’s like, we had a little taste of being _together_ and now we have to last the whole season with crazy busy schedules, time differences, and seeing each other in person like twice, and even then it’s at competitions, so we have to be focused. We’re still competitors, after all.”

“Of course,” Nikolai chuckles. “You wouldn’t be my grandson if you weren’t still out to be the best, to prove yourself to the world. Boyfriend or not, you’ll always be competitive.”

“Well being competitive is kind of my livelihood,” Nastya says defensively.

“Yuratchka, I never said it was a bad thing. It means you’re passionate.”

“Passionate, huh? Well, that is my theme for this year.”

“Is that so? I think I heard that when I was watching your competition in Canada. But Yuratchka, I have to ask: who picked out your clothes this year? They’re not very like you, and that vest one certainly isn’t very ‘passionate’, as you say. I thought gay men were supposed to have good fashion sense,” he chuckles.

Nastya groans. “Well, Yuuri is the one who helped me with the outfits this year, and he’s gay, so there goes your theory. I promise it’s the last time he touches my wardrobe, though. You’ll be happy to know that I actually got a new shirt to replace the vest thing. You can see it at Rostelecom.”

She almost doesn’t want to tell him the real reason why she’s here, not when he’s so happy for her and proud of her… But if she doesn’t do it now, she might not get another opportunity face to face.

“I look forward to it, then,” Nikolai says, taking a sip from his tea, which has probably gone cold at this point.

She needs to tell him.

He _loves_ her; he might be upset about the name, but he’ll accept her.

He has to.

“Grandpa? There’s um, one other big thing that’s going on in my life now.”

“There’s more? Goodness, you have been busy. And almost none of this has even been about skating. I must say I’m quite shocked.”

“Yeah, and um, it’s not a bad thing, but I’m… nervous to tell you.”

“Yuratchka, my son, you can tell me anything. Nothing could make me love you any less.”

“Thanks, grandpa. I… That means a lot to me. I mean, I guess I knew that, but hearing you say that really… helps.”

“Of course, my boy. Now, what would you like to tell me?”

“What would you say if I didn’t want to be called Yuratchka anymore?” she starts.

Nikolai frowns. “Well, I could call you Yura, I suppose.”

“Um, I mean, what if I don’t want to be Yuri at all?” Nastya tries again.

 Nikolai chuckles, not understanding yet. “Well no Yuratchka or Yura or Yuri at all; what would you have me call you then?”

Nastya feels indescribably small, despite how tall and strong she is.

She bites her lip. “What about… Nasten’ka?”

Nikolai furrows his brow. “Nasten’ka? That’s a girl’s name, you know that.”

“Yes, Grandpa. I… I know.”

“You want to be called a girl’s name?” he asks slowly, trying to figure out where she’s going with this.

“Well… I’m a girl, Grandpa. So, yes.”

Understanding finally registers on Nikolai’s face, the wrinkle between his brows disappearing. “And you’re sure you want me to call you Nasten’ka?” he asks. She doesn’t catch the slight upturn of his mouth.

“Yes, I’m sure, I—”

“Because I’ve always been partial to Nastyusha, myself.”

A broad grin breaks over Nastya’s face and a weight disappears from her chest. “Nastyusha works, too,” she says with a light laugh. “You’re not… upset? I know you were the one who named me when I was born, I was so worried you would be mad at me for getting rid of the name.”

“No, my dear,” he replies, easily using the feminine form. “I’m not upset. How could I be, when you’ve chosen such a beautiful name for yourself? And this one will make you happy, yes? I could never be upset over something like that if it makes you happy.”

She launches herself at her grandfather and tackles him in a hug. Luckily, he’s seated comfortably on the couch, so she doesn’t do any permanent damage to his back or anything.

“I love you very much, Nastyusha. No matter who you are.”

“I love you too, Grandpa.”

After a long moment, she finally pulls back and returns to her own seat.

“So tell me more about… this,” Nikolai prompts. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about becoming a woman.”

“Uh, well, in public I’m still going to skate as Yuri. I’d like to finish this season, at least, before making any big announcements to the ISU.”

“Ah, I wondered about that. So when I tell my neighbor to watch you on television, I should still say you are my grandson?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m not really worried about Evgeniya Borisovna outing me,” Nastya says dryly.

“Oh, but her grandchildren visit all the time, and they’re little scoundrels. Especially that Igor…”

“Grandpa, please. Isn’t Igor like four?”

“Yes! And he’s an absolute menace. I shudder to think of what he’ll be like as a teenager.”

“Eh, maybe he’ll mellow out.”

“One can only hope. But Nastyusha, you were going to tell me more about yourself.”

“Alright. What do you want to know? I mean, the big part is that I go by a different name, and I wear like, girl’s clothes. Which is nice. I bought a _lot_ of new clothes,” she adds with a grin.

“Well you’ve been fashionable since you could dress yourself, so this does not surprise me. Do you have pictures?”

“Um, just a few,” Nastya says shyly. Normally she would have hundreds of selfies, but that’s because she likes to post them. Call her vain, but she likes when people comment on her photos.

She pulls up her photo gallery and scrolls to find her more girly selfies. Most of them were sent to Otabek, and one or two went to Mila.

Everything is fine, with Nikolai complimenting a dress or hairstyle here and there, until, as she scrolls, the photo of her in the bikini shows up.

She shrieks. “Don’t look at that one!”

“Nastyusha, don’t be silly. Let me see.”

“No!”

“Is it a naughty picture? Because if so, you’re right: I don’t need to see that. But if it was just you in a swim suit, I see no problem. You have a very trim figure.”

“No, oh my god, it’s not a _naughty picture_. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t.”

“You have a boyfriend; it wouldn’t be that shocking.”

“Grandpa!”

“I’m not completely ignorant of what you young people get up to these days.”

“God, this is so embarrassing.”

“Let me see the photo, Nastyusha.”

“No, I don’t want you to see it.”

Nikolai purses his lips and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t push any further. “Fine. I’m sure you looked very nice, though.”

“Please stop.”

“Alright. So, I assume your Otabek knows all of this, and he treats you well?”

“Yeah, oh my gosh, Beka has been wonderful. He was actually the first one to uh, meet me as a girl? Well, that’s kind of a complicated story,” Nastya hedges.

“Did he not recognize you?”

“Well, yes and no,” Nastya says. “He asked if I was related to Yuri Plisetsky, and I panicked because, well, duh, and I um… I lied and said I was Yuri’s twin sister.”

“Oh, you didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did,” Nastya says. At the time it had been horribly embarrassing, this whole lie; but now that both of them are well and truly past it, it’s become sort of a funny story.

She tells Nikolai of how she tried to live two separate lives, convincing Otabek of a false back story, going on a date (she glosses over their first kiss, only admitting to it after Nikolai insisted she tell him).

She tells him about how she flew to Almaty to set everything to right, and how they decided to try dating, despite the distance, and despite Nastya just starting to figure out how to be out, even in a limited capacity.  

“So now we text every day, Skype each other as much as we can, and spend as much time as possible at competitions with each other. It’s all we get during the season.”

“Well, it sounds like you are good to each other,” Nikolai says fondly.

“I hope so.”

“As long as you keep that in mind, I think you will be. You like to be feisty, but you’re a good person under it all. Don’t be afraid to have more than one side to yourself.”

They chat more about Nastya’s rapidly changing life—hanging out with Mila, Ivan being oblivious, the changes to her programs—and then Nikolai fills his granddaughter in on his own life, boring though he claims it is.

Evgeniya Borisovna is quite the gossip, and she seems to be rubbing off on Nikolai, because he has stories about just about everyone in the apartment complex, the cashier at the corner store, some random woman he met at the library… the list goes on.

Soon enough, it’s time for dinner, and Nastya cooks, to save her grandfather the trouble of standing over the stove.

He makes a fuss, saying he’s more than capable, but she insists. It’s a simple dinner, but it’s nice to be together, just the two of them.

They watch some terrible drama that Nikolai claims to have no interest in, but he ends up yelling at the television anyway and Nastya laughs.

Nastya cleans up, puts the leftovers into a container so Nikolai can reheat it tomorrow, and after a few more stories, they decide to turn in.

Nastya makes her bed on the couch—not the most comfortable, but she has certainly slept in worse places.

She’s glad she brought her headphones with her, because Nikolai’s snoring has _not_ gotten any softer as he ages.

 

In the morning, Nikolai is up before the birds, making burnt toast and even more burnt coffee. He offers some to Nastya, but she declines.

She gets dressed in a pair of black leggings and a black and white plaid shirtdress. She does her hair in a half-up ponytail, and applies just a little makeup for contour.

Nikolai is impressed.

“You look beautiful, Nastyusha,” he tells her.

“Thanks, Grandpa. Though, this isn’t really all that special. I can get _really_ prettied up. You’ll see that some time.”

“I look forward to it,” Nikolai smiles. “I’d like to brag about what a beautiful granddaughter I have.”

“Ah, so this is really about your bragging rights, not how nice I look; I see how it is.”

“I am a simple man,” Nikolai teases.

She wants to catch an early train back to St Petersburg, so she wishes her grandfather well and heads out, grabbing a coffee on her way to the station around eight.

It’s Sunday morning, and almost no one is up at this hour, but the barista looks a little too pleased to have a customer.

“Good morning!” he says, and he’s entirely too chipper. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Nastya gives him a withering look. “Hazelnut macchiato.”

The smile on the barista’s face falls for a second before he slips it back on. “You got it. What size?”

“Biggest one you’ve got.”

“Coming right up!”

The barista sets to making her drink, and another customer walks in.

The barista hasn’t rung her up yet, so she stands awkwardly by the register still. The new customer stands right behind her.

She shifts to the side, trying to indicate that she’s already ordered, thinking maybe he just can’t see the menu or something.

The new guy shifts with her, standing even closer.

She moves more deliberately, and again he follows.

“Back off,” she says.

He acts like he’s shocked. “I didn’t do anything,” he says.

“Quit following me. You’re way too close.”

The barista comes back with her drink and tells her the total. She fishes for the money from her jacket pocket, but the new guy is slapping a bill on the counter.

“I’ll pay for the pretty girl’s drink,” he says.

“No, he won’t. I’m buying my own coffee,” Nastya tells the barista.

The barista looks between the two customers quickly. Nastya makes a face that she hopes reads ‘death will come for you if you take that man’s money’.

It seems to work, because the barista takes Nastya’s money, makes change, and hands it back to her, followed by her drink.

She tries to leave, but the new guy blocks the way.

“I’m Sasha,” he says with a smarmy smile.

“I’m not interested,” Nastya says and makes to leave, only for Sasha to grab her arm.

 _Oh hell no_.

“You wanna lose a fucking hand, asswipe?”

“Don’t be like that, baby,” Sasha says.

Nastya puts her coffee down on the counter, grabs Sasha’s fingers, and begins bending them backwards as hard as she can.

He yelps in pain.

“I’m _not_ your baby,” she spits. “You’re a piece of shit and if I didn’t have a train to catch, I would rip your fucking balls off with my bare hands.”

“Okay, okay! I get it!” he yells. Nastya is still bending his fingers back; the overly cheerful barista looks torn between intervening personally and calling the police.

“Apologize,” Nastya seethes.

“You could’ve just said no!” Sasha wails.

“I did, fuckface. Try again: apologize.”

“Okay! I’m sorry! Jesus, you’re gonna break my hand! Let go!”

“Hmm, that wasn’t very sincere,” Nastya says.

“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done it!”

“Done what? Be specific.”

“I shouldn’t have touched you!”

“And what else?” Nastya prompts.

“And called you baby!”

“Hmm. Acceptable.” She lets go of his hand, and he begins nursing it tenderly. “Next time you try to flirt with a girl and she says she’s not interested, fucking leave her alone. Got it?”

“Yes, okay, I get it!”

“Thanks for the coffee,” Nastya says to the barista as she picks up her cup again. “Maybe something iced for Sasha here, so that hand can heal up. Might have some swelling.”

She flips her hair over her shoulder, grabs her suitcase and walks out the door.

On one hand, she was kind of scared how some random stranger just decided to grab her out of nowhere. But on the other hand, she feels powerful.

She spends the rest of her walk to the station thinking of other ways she could’ve kicked that guy’s ass, but most of those ways end with her getting arrested, so she’s glad she didn’t do more than she did.

She texts Otabek about her encounter once she’s on the train, and soon enough she drifts off to sleep, the Russian countryside rushing past her window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kick his ass, baby, I'll hold your flower. 
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter! I'm gonna try to post it tonight, too !


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rostelecom means hometown pride is on the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bam! Double update! Combined these two little chapters are almost a full-length chapter, but i just felt like they needed to have the break between them. For the narrative, or something.  
> Enjoy!

By the time Rostelecom rolls around, Nastya is feeling better than ever.

Her routines are right where she wants them, everyone who means anything significant to her knows who she really is, she’s on her home turf, and she gets to see her boyfriend.

All in all, things are looking good for Anastasiya Plisetskaya.

The Cup is being held in Saint Petersburg, which means she doesn’t have to even travel or stay in a hotel or anything.

Sure, it’s fun to go to new places and sneak pastries from the hotel breakfast buffet while Yakov isn’t looking, but there’s also something relaxing about being able to sleep in her own bed during a competition.

Especially since she gets to share that bed with her boyfriend.

Otabek’s coach is staying in a hotel, and originally had been very _against_ the idea of Otabek staying at Nastya’s apartment.

“You’ll be unfocused and distracted,” Temir had said. “And sleeping on a couch isn’t good for you. Right before a competition? A terrible idea.”

Nastya still isn’t sure what Otabek told him to convince him, but eventually his coach had relented, and Otabek got permission to stay with Nastya.

When he rings the buzzer, Nastya leaps up to let him in.

“Beka!” she yells when she throws open the door. As promised, she jumps into his arms, and he catches her easily, grabbing underneath her thighs to support her weight. She peppers his face with kisses for a minute until he puts her down gently, so he can actually enter her apartment instead of awkwardly standing in the hallway.

Not that he’s particularly worried someone will see them, but a little discretion would be nice.

“It’s so good to see you,” Otabek says, and kisses Nastya’s cheek.

“Do you want a shower? I know the flight wasn’t like, super killer, but…”

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Okay, cool, I’ll grab you a towel.”

 

After Otabek showers, they just cuddle on Nastya’s bed until dinner time.

It’s so refreshing to just be in each other’s presence that they don’t really even talk. Otabek plays with Nastya’s hair a little; Nastya rubs Otabek’s back.

It feels so wonderful that Nastya wishes they could be like this all the time.

“This must be what Viktor and Katsudon feel like all the time,” she says, mostly to herself.

“I thought they were gross,” Otabek teases.

“Well I mean obviously, but… it’s so _nice_ to just be in the same room as you, you know? Distance can suck my ass.”

“You have such a charming way with words.”

“All part of my appeal,” Nastya says easily.

“You are quite appealing,” Otabek says, and leans in to kiss her. “But, we should get up and make dinner. Because I want to get to sleep a bit early. You know how I am before a competition.”

“Yeah, yeah, old man,” Nastya teases.

“I just can’t keep up with my teenaged girlfriend anymore,” Otabek says with an eyeroll.

“Don’t make it sound creepy; I’ll be twenty soon.”

“I know, but that’s why I have to make the cringey teenager comments. I only have a little while left.”

“You’re making it worse, Beka. You’re not _that_ old.”

She steals a kiss from him and they get out of bed to make dinner.

While they eat, they chat.

“So how did you manage to get Temir to agree to let you stay with me?” Nastya asks.

“It definitely took some convincing. His main concern was that we would goof around too much, and also that I would be sleeping on a couch or something. The bed situation was easier to convince him of.”

“You didn’t tell him we were sharing, did you? Because that sounds…”

“No, I said you had a bed for me to sleep in. It’s not my fault if Temir interpreted that as you having a guest bed,” Otabek says with a smirk.

“Well played. A little ambiguity can’t hurt. And the uh, goofing around? How’d you convince him of that?”

“It ended up being two major things: one, at the end of the day we are both professional athletes who take our jobs seriously, and we both want to be on the podium. Therefore, any extreme shenanigans will not be happening. And secondly, Temir trusts me. I appealed to that. He knows me well, and he knows that yeah, we don’t get to see each other much, this is a rare opportunity that a competition is in your hometown, so we want to see each other. And at the same time, Temir trusts me to be responsible.”

“Good. You are very responsible,” Nastya confirms. “Maybe too responsible. Loosen up.”

“We can’t all be rebellious, Nastya.”

“But it’s fun,” she pouts.

Otabek rolls his eyes. “I love you, but you’re ridiculous.”

“Why’d you say ‘but’? Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Fine. I love you _and_ you’re ridiculous.”

“Much better. Love you too, Beka.”

 

The next morning, they wake up a little too warm in each other’s embrace, but bright and early and ready to tackle the day’s competition.

Nastya is feeling confident in her revised short program, and it had gone well at the practice competition she did last week.

Otabek is feeling similarly confident, and they tease each other over breakfast who’s going to be in first place after today.

They’re not the only ones competing though, of course. Several other talented skaters will be there, including Michele Crispino, Guang Hong Li, and Yuuri’s old acquaintance, Minami, who was still new to the Grand Prix circuit but talented enough to watch out for.  Plus, Rostelecom is nearer the end of the season; everyone has had a chance to really hone their programs.

Nastya doesn’t spare much thought for the other competitors today, though.

She’s got her new costume, she’s got her makeup bag, and she’s ready to go to the rink.

Yakov is already there when Nastya and Otabek arrive.

Otabek leaves to go check in with his coach, but he gives Nastya’s hand a quick squeeze and promises to see her later.

“Good of you to show up,” Yakov grumbles.

“Oh please, we were like five minutes early.”

“Which is ten minutes late. Go get warmed up, Anastasiya.”

“Oi, you have to call me Yuri today,” she says quickly.

“You! Warm up! Go! Now!” Yakov replies.

Nastya sighs and gives Yakov a look, but does as she’s told.

Ivan is already warming up when she gets there, and she rolls her eyes. She had almost forgotten he was assigned here, too.

She gives him a “sup” nod, but otherwise plans to ignore him.

Of course, Ivan has different plans.

“Hey, ready for today?”

She sighs. “Yeah, Ivan, I think so.”

“I told you you should call me Vanya,” he pouts.

“And I told you I’d think about it. Now don’t bother me; I have a warm up process and it doesn’t involve you.”

Ivan mutters something but Nastya isn’t paying attention. She sets to her warm ups and stretching, headphones on and eyes closed.

She visualizes herself out on the ice: sometimes during warmups, she likes to daydream up cute dresses and skirts to wear, but on competition days she always imagines her actual costume. She sees herself with her hair and makeup done up, her new purple passion flower shirt on.

She’s got her Short Program song playing on repeat on her headphones, so she starts it from the beginning and goes through each step mentally, still doing her warm up routine.

She imagines herself flying across the ice, skating for no one but herself. By the end of the season, these routines will be her declaration: they will be the moment she points to when she says to the world that that skater? Is no longer Yuri Plisetsky. He is gone. And Anastasiya Plisetskaya is here to take his place, bigger, better, more beautiful than before.

 _Truer_ than before.

Soon enough, she moves to do her warm ups on the ice, still going through her visualization process. She feels calm and ready and confident that she’s going to be in the lead after this Short Program today.

When the competition begins, Nastya doesn’t pay much attention to the other skaters.

Michele Crispino is up first, and his routine happens so fast that Nastya barely registers it. His score comes up, and it’s a perfectly respectable score, but Nastya knows she can crush it.

Minami Kenjirou is up next, and Nastya can hardly believe this kid is actually older than her. He looks like he’s not a day older than twelve. That ridiculous hair isn’t helping, either, but Nastya guesses it’s sort of his trademark at this point.

Minami’s score is short of Michele’s, but he seems happy with it over in the Kiss and Cry.

Nastya is up fourth, so she ends up missing most of Ivan’s performance. That’s fine by her, though, since she’s seen his routine plenty at the rink.

Ivan just barely misses Minami’s score, thanks in large part to over-rotating two of his three quads.

Yakov is furious with him as he comes off the ice, and simply nods firmly to Nastya as she prepares to take the ice.

She steps out in her new purple shirt, and she feels like she’s home: the noise from the crowd should be deafening, but Nastya drinks it in.

She takes her spot in the middle of the ice, strikes her beginning pose, and waits for the music she knows so well.

In the back of her mind, she calls up the Instagram message from Key those weeks ago.

_Skating is who we are._

_Today is the last day that Yuri Plisetsky will ever skate this program_ , she thinks. The thought shocks her a little bit, because she still plans to skate at the Grand Prix Final, and as of right now is planning on waiting for the off-season to come out.

But the thought takes hold, and she decides to embrace it.

As the program unfolds, those precious short two minutes become a strange sort of farewell to her old self.

She feels like she’s letting everything go out there on the ice. Each jump leaves her feeling lighter and lighter, and when she’s done with the routine, she feels as though there ought to be some sort of physical mark of what she’s left behind. She imagines something like clothes strewn across the ice, but instead all there is are the traces of her skates and those who went before her.

She takes her bows and heads to the Kiss and Cry, where Yakov is waiting for her.

Her scores come in, and just as she predicted, she is firmly in first place. There’s still Otabek and Guang Hong to go, but Nastya feels untouchable right now.

Otabek takes the ice next, looking resplendent in his gold shirt, and Nastya calls out a “Davai!” for her boyfriend.

Otabek is in the zone today, and his skating reflects that. His concentration is superb, and each element flows into the next, which is something Otabek had expressed concern over in the weeks leading up to this competition.

Nastya watches with a fierce smile as Otabek finishes his routine and strikes his final pose, both arms stretched up toward the sky, head thrown back.

His chest is heaving, and he looks magnificent.

His score comes in, and he’s just two points behind Nastya.

Nastya greets him as he leaves the Kiss and Cry and they exchange a brief but fierce hug.

They try to keep it as “manly” and “platonic” as possible, but who knows what everyone else is thinking. Nastya finds that she doesn’t really care right now.

Finally, Guang Hong is up, and he skates cleanly until his last quad, when he has to touch the ice to save from falling completely.

At the end of the Short Program, Nastya is in the lead, Otabek in second, Guang Hong in third, Michele in fourth, Minami in fifth, and Ivan in sixth.

After a debriefing from their coaches, a couple of quick interview questions, and a much-needed shower, Nastya and Otabek meet up and decide to do a little sightseeing, mostly under the guise of doing something other than just lounging at Nastya’s apartment.

They keep it light, so their coaches can’t accuse them of overworking themselves or something ridiculous. They take pictures of the monuments and of each other, posting the best ones to Instagram for their fans.

Nastya still had some of her makeup on from her performance, because she figured she could get away with saying it just hadn’t come off in the shower (which was true, if only because she made sure to keep her face out of the spray, and washed it carefully to preserve her eyeliner at least).

She sneaks a photo where she kisses Otabek’s cheek, and manages to capture the flush of Otabek’s face at the attention.

“Nastya!” he whisper-shouts at her.

“I couldn’t resist, you were too cute,” she giggles.

Otabek shakes his head, dismissing her, but there’s a play of a smile on his lips.

They head to Nastya’s apartment not long after, and do some additional stretching before cuddling on Nastya’s bed until dinner, like they had done the night before.

“I could seriously get used to this,” Nastya sighs, running her fingers along Otabek’s jaw before leaning in to kiss him softly.

“Mm, if only,” Otabek says.

Nastya thinks for a minute what them being together would look like: would they live in Russia or Kazakhstan? Would they find a bigger apartment? What would it be like to be completely out, living with her boyfriend?

She suddenly remembers thinking about the end of ‘Yuri Plisetsky’.

“I had an interesting thought during my SP today,” Nastya says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, like. Totally unbidden, right before the music started, my brain was like _this is the last time Yuri Plisetsky will ever skate this program._ Which is weird, because like, I still have the Final, at least? I wasn’t planning on coming out until an off-season hit.”

“Well, maybe it’s more symbolic. Like, every time you skate, a little piece of Yuri disappears and is replaced by Anastasiya,” Otabek suggests.

“I dunno. I should wait until I see that counselor this week. It was just a thought that popped into my head.”

“Oh, that’s this week?”

Nastya had received a message back from the therapist she contacted, but due to both of their busy schedules, it had taken a couple of weeks to find a time that would work for both of them.

“Yeah. Yakov always gives us an off-day the day after a competition, so we found a time that works right after Rostelecom. I’ve also got a phone call scheduled with Alexei Sidorov, but that’s later in the week.”

“Good. I hope you get some good advice.”

“I’m not really sure what to expect, honestly. Key told me a little about what the session would be like, but… I don’t really _know_ , you know?”

“Yeah, I understand. I wouldn’t know what to expect either,” Otabek says.

Eventually, they decide it’s time to get up and make dinner, so they roll off the bed with the appropriate level of grumbling and complaining (read: a lot).

They have a simple dinner, wash the dishes, watch a nature documentary on Netflix, and decide to turn in for the evening.

 

Day two of Rostelecom feels intense.

Nastya and Otabek are neck and neck, and Guang Hong and Michele aren’t far behind, either.

Nastya concentrates on herself, though, because that’s the only thing she can control. She goes through her warm ups, visualizing her routine, seeing herself with a dark smoky eye, more noticeable than her Short Program’s makeup, and wonders what to do with her hair.

Before she goes on the ice, she messes with it, starting with two braids along the sides of her head that finish in a loose ponytail, but she doesn’t like it, so she takes it out.

“I have an idea,” Liliya says, startling Nastya.

“Jesus, I didn’t even know you were here.”

“Be more aware of your surroundings,” Liliya chastises with a click of her tongue.

“Okay, _mom_ ,” Nastya snaps.

“Such an ungrateful daughter I’ve raised,” Liliya says, and Nastya could swear it’s a _joke_. From iron-faced Liliya Baronovskaya.

These are strange times, indeed.

Liliya grabs the comb, though, and begins yanking at Nastya’s hair. She divides it into three sections, and puts a French braid in each section, but leaves the bottom part down completely. The three braids join into one in the back. Then Liliya adds a few tiny braids among the loose hair.

Nastya thinks she looks like a warrior.

She loves it.

“Is this that punk look you’re always going for?” Liliya asks.

“It’s perfect,” Nastya says, admiring the neat plaits in the mirror.

 

Watching the other skaters is agonizing. She just wants it to be her turn, but since she was in first after the SP, she’s last today.

Ivan is up first, and he skates better than he has been, which is good. Yakov must see something special in the guy, or he wouldn’t have taken him on, but Nastya doesn’t really see it. Maybe Yakov was just desperate for a student who would actually listen to him and took Ivan on out of pity.

That’s mean, but Nastya never said she was nice.

Minami is up next, and his endurance seems to just utterly crap out on him in the second half of his program. He downgrades all but one jump, and when his score comes up, he’s behind Ivan.

Ouch.

Michele skates next, and while Nastya has never much cared for his style, he’s technically skilled, which she can appreciate. He doesn’t have the same youthful energy that Ivan and Minami have, being nearly a decade older than them, but his experience sees him through, and he pulls off a convincing score.

Guang Hong looks nervous as he takes the ice, and his skating reflects it. He steps out of a couple of jumps, and his footwork isn’t nearly as clean as it should be. Guang Hong falls behind Michele, just a smidgen ahead of Ivan.

Finally, it’s Otabek’s turn, and Nastya knows that Rostelecom belongs to the two of them. She can tell by the set of his shoulders, the firm line of his jaw, the raw energy pouring off of him.

They lock eyes, and Nastya gives him a firm nod before he goes on. “Davai.”

He looks serious as ever, but Nastya knows that he’s having a good time out there. His routine looks even more polished since she saw it at Skate America, which is to be expected, and she knows that his scores are going to be fantastic.

Sure enough, when the board flashes the scores, Otabek is only one point shy of his Free Skate personal record, and is firmly in first place.

Nastya’s jaw drops, because she knows she’s going to have to turn in an even better performance to beat that.

She can do it.

She will.

This is _her city_ , and she will not let _anyone_ , not even her boyfriend, take Rostelecom from her.

Again, as she waits for the music, she thinks about Key’s words, and about Yuri’s fading presence. She doesn’t feel like him at all, even in the pants and masculine jacket, which she supposes is a good thing, in the long run.

For now, though, it’s a strange thought. The public persona of Yuri Plisetsky that she’s fought so hard to keep as a mask this season feels so distant for the first time on the ice in public. A fleeting panic courses through her that somehow, the audience will _know_ , but then the music starts, and she has no choice but to skate for herself, to skate the way _she_ does best.

As she skates, she thinks of herself a bit like a reptile: one that has lost most of its old skin and underneath is revealed to be a healthy, vibrant new layer. But the stubborn traces of the old molt cling to her ankles, and she tries to shake them off.

She feels herself hesitate as she prepares for a quad, and she doesn’t know why. There’s no time to question it, though, so she throws herself into the jump anyway. It’s under-rotated, and she _never_ does that.

She’s pissed, now, and it’s probably coming through. Who said passion couldn’t be passionate frustration? Perfectionism manifesting as caring too much.

Sacrificing something for the sake of the art.

She changes a planned triple into a quad, and this time she nails it. She hopes it’s enough to take the win. 

When she finishes, she’s breathing hard, but she doesn’t feel that rush; something is missing.

She’s frustrated, because it’s been going _so_ much better in practice.

She’s in the Kiss and Cry, hands gripped into fists so hard her knuckles are white.

Yakov slaps her hand to get her to relax, but she ignores him.

Her scores come in, and…

Second.

Otabek beat her by half a point.

She took silver at her home tournament.

“Dammit!” she swears, stomping her foot emphatically. “Dammit!”

Otabek is nearby, and he grabs her attention when she leaves the Kiss and Cry.

“Sorry, Baby,” he whispers.

“Congrats,” she says, but she’s moping.

 

The medal ceremony passes in a flash, and Nastya doesn’t even want to stay to watch the women’s competition.

Otabek comes back to her apartment with her, and she rants and vents about why and how she messed up, and how she swears revenge for the Final, because she is getting gold there, _god dammit_.

“I’m sure you will, Baby,” Otabek says. Even if he’s just saying it to comfort her, it works, because she feels the anger slowly start to seep out, replaced with renewed focus and determination.

 

Otabek’s flight leaves early the next morning, so they have one last night to snuggle and kiss and be with each other in person, until the GPF in Vancouver.

They take advantage of it to the best of their abilities. They had agreed not to do anything sexual until the off season, but that doesn’t rule out heavy make-out sessions.

Nastya puts on a bra and a cute top and skirt combo, just because she wants to feel more girly. She skips tights, though, because she just shaved her legs the day before the competition, so she rubs her smooth legs against Otabek’s hairy ones and he smiles when she brags about how smooth her skin is.

“Doesn’t it feel _good_?” she asks, and her voice is smooth and velvety and Otabek doesn’t reply, just kisses her hard and deep and runs his hands over her legs.

At some point, Nastya starts to run her hands up under Otabek’s shirt, and he stops to just take the thing off.

“This okay?” he asks as he reaches for his hem.

“Hell yes,” Nastya says enthusiastically.

They kiss for a few more minutes like that, Nastya greedily running her hands over Otabek’s exposed skin, his firmly muscled chest, his tight abs.

She wonders if Otabek wants her to take her shirt off, too.

“Beka?” she asks when he pulls away to suck on her neck.

“Too much?” he asks, pulling back immediately.

“No, no, you can keep going,” she says. “But um, do you want me to take my shirt off too?”

“Only if you want to and you feel comfortable,” he says, and kisses her softly on the lips.

“I think… I want to try it? I mean, I have a bra on, so just… don’t touch under the bra?”

“Of course. And if you want to put it back on at any time, I don’t mind at all. I just want you to feel good.”

Nastya kisses him firmly, and he lets her sit up to pull her shirt off.

She’s never been this nervous taking off her shirt before. It’s got to be the context, because she’s never been shirtless in bed with someone before, regardless of what gender she was presenting as.

But maybe with the bra as a barrier, she’ll feel alright. She wants to feel Otabek’s skin against her own.

So, she takes her top off, and fights the urge to cover herself up immediately.

“Of course it’s leopard print,” Otabek laughs, indicating her bra.

“My underwear matches,” Nastya says proudly, pulling down the waist of her skirt to show it off.

“God, why is that so hot? Matching underwear…”

Nastya puts her skirt back in place, and pulls Otabek back in close. “There’s nothing wrong with thinking your girlfriend is hot.”

“Thank goodness for that, because I think about it quite a bit.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm,” Otabek says, and he kisses from her lips down her jaw, her neck, across her collarbone…

Nastya sighs. A little voice reminds her that Otabek is leaving in the morning, but she ignores it the best she can, and loses herself in the sensation of Otabek’s touch and the way he feels under her own hands.

Eventually, the kisses slow down, and they start to drift off to sleep. Somewhere around eleven thirty, Nastya realizes she’s falling asleep shirtless and wearing makeup. She nudges Beka awake so he can change into pajamas and pack his things for his early flight. They take turns in the bathroom before they curl back up in bed together, pretending there’s no distance between them at all.

 

Otabek gets up at four, since his flight is at six fifty am. Nastya insisted that he wake her, so she could make him a light breakfast and see him off properly.

He has a bowl of oatmeal to tie him over on the flight, but turns down coffee.

“It’ll just make me have to go to the bathroom on the flight, and I can’t stand airplane toilets.”

“That’s fair,” Nastya agrees, making a face.

They sit quietly at the table, holding hands and speaking softly.

Finally, Otabek decides it’s time to go. He gets up and grabs his suitcase and sports bag, heading toward the door.

They kiss gently.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Nastya says.

“I’ll miss you too,” Otabek says. “Tell me about your therapy appointment, and how things go with Alexei.”

“I will. Text me when you get home safe, alright?”

“I will.”

They kiss once more, a little fiercer.

“I love you,” Otabek says.

“ _Men seni süyemin,_ ” Nastya says with her best Kazakh accent. _I love you_.

Otabek blushes deeply. “That’s not the version I taught you.”

“I know, but I mean it.”

“ _Men seni süyemin,_ ” Otabek says back.

With one more kiss, Nastya opens the door, and Otabek heads down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I speak no Kazakh. Here's the video I used: https://youtu.be/QceafI8aG9U?t=3m21s


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nastya meets with a therapist, talks to Alexei Sidorov, and gets some reassurance about her impending coming out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! sorry for not updating on Friday, I was recovering from jet-lag because I'm back at school in France !   
> Anyway, I decided I want to have everything posted before school starts on Monday and I finished editing it all on the plane ride here (8+ hours is a long time, ok), so brace yerselves for the three final chapters ! they're kinda short, but since you're getting 3 at once, I hope that's ok :))  
> Thanks again for reading and commenting and leaving kudos -- it means so much !

Nastya gets to the therapist’s office a few minutes early, so she waits in a small lobby with generic art of the ocean and nature.

She fidgets with the hem of her skirt, wondering if a skirt was too much. She wants to present as clearly female, so she over-dressed a little bit, maybe.

A young woman, perhaps in her twenties, comes out from the door, saying a goodbye. Nastya assumes she’s another client.

After another minute, a middle-aged man with a generous belly but a thick mop of curly black hair opens the door. “Anastasiya Plisetskaya?”

This must be Dr Sapozhnik.

She stands. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Welcome. Come,” Dr Sapozhnik says, and leads the way down a short hallway to another room with a couch on one side and an armchair on the other.

Dr Sapozhnik takes a seat in the armchair, and indicates the couch to Nastya.

“So, Miss Plisetskaya, let’s get a little background information before we begin with why you’re here.”

“Um, okay. And you can just call me Anastasiya.”

“Very well, Anastasiya. Tell me about yourself: your age, what you do for a living, family, friends, significant others… That sort of thing.”

“I’m nineteen, I’m… You can’t saying anything to anyone, right?”

“We have complete confidentiality between us, Anastasiya. Whatever we discuss here is just for us. You are of course free to share anything you like, but I will not say anything unless it is clear that you or someone else is in imminent danger.”

“Right. Okay. So like I said, I’m nineteen, and I’m actually a professional figure skater. But I’m… Not under the name Anastasiya.”

“I see. We can come back to that, as it ties into why you’re here, correct?”

Nastya nods.

“Okay. So just tell me a little about your friends, family, and if you have anything else you’d like to share, such as perhaps any mental health concerns, medical concerns, etc. Whatever you feel would be relevant for me to know.”

“Okay, well I live by myself, but I see my friends a lot. I skate with them. Well, I have a few friends who don’t live in Russia, but I talk to them online and stuff.”

“Do you see your friends outside of work, too?”

“Yeah, sometimes I go hang out with Mila, or have dinner with Viktor and Katsudon. Er, his real name isn’t Katsudon. But we had the same name, and … It’s actually a stupid story. But that’s his nickname.”

“I see. So Mila, Viktor, and… Katsudon?”

“His real name is Yuuri.”

“Okay. And how would you describe your friendship with these people? Are you close, casual…?”

“Viktor and Yuuri are older than me, and they act kind of like my parents, even though they’re not _that_ much older than me. But Viktor… I kind of grew up looking up to him. And Yuuri, more recently. Viktor and Yuuri are actually married now. And they’re kind of gross in public, all gooey and shit—oh, am I allowed to swear here?”

Dr Sapozhnik chuckles. “Yes, you can express yourself freely here, Anastasiya, I don’t mind. By ‘gross in public’ do you mean physically affectionate?”

“Yes,” Nastya says emphatically. “They’re awful.”

“And what about Mila?”

“Mila used to be… I dunno, since I came out, we’ve gotten a lot closer. She’s my only girl-friend, so she’s been a big help, honestly.”

“Very good. And your online friends, tell me about them.”

“Well I met them in person, but Beka lives in Kazakhstan, and Key lives in Canada. And I just met Key. So we only see each other at competitions mostly. Well, I get to see Beka more often, because we see each other on the off-season…”

“Who would you say is your closest friend, then?”

“Beka,” Nastya replies without hesitation.

“Alright. And do you have a significant other?”

“Yeah. I’m… Beka’s also my boyfriend.”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Um, like five months? Six? We’ve been friends for over three years, though.”

“And how would you describe your relationship with Beka?”

“It’s great, except for the distance. But he’s been amazing, so supportive… He’s everything I could ask for.”

“Good. Well, Anastasiya, it sounds like you have a good support network. You haven’t mentioned family yet, though. Tell me a little about them, and then we’ll discuss what brought you in.”

“Oh. Family. Well, really there’s just my grandfather. He lives in Moscow, but I try to visit when I can. I just visited a couple weeks ago.”

“Did you grandfather raise you?”

“Mostly. I mean, I had parents, when I was young, but they were so busy with work, I spent most of my time with my Grandpa anyway.”

“Did they pass away, leave you…?”

“Car accident. Well, my dad survived the crash, but… he wasn’t the same. He had a brain injury, and he got really angry. Couldn’t control himself. Grandpa came and said that I couldn’t see Dad for a while, because he was sick, and then I just… never saw him again.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“Okay. Would you like to discuss your parents at all in these sessions?”

“Not really. I’m pretty over it, honestly. Grandpa loved me and raised me well.”

“Alright. Well, if ever something comes up, feel free to share anything you like.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Dr Sapozhnik makes a quick note on his paper, and then looks back to Nastya. “So, let’s get into why you’re here today. Tell me a little about what’s going on, and what you’d like to achieve in these sessions.”

“Well, um, I’m a professional figure skater. And uh, I’m pretty… famous. I know that sounds conceited but like… I’m really well known in skating. I’ve won a lot of big titles.”

Dr Sapozhnik nods, and waits for her to continue.

“And uh, I’m trans. Like, publicly, I’m a men’s figure skater. But… I’m not a man?”

“So in your private life, you are able to live as a woman, but publicly you maintain your assigned gender presentation and identity?”

“Yeah. But I… I want to come out. Publicly. That’s why I’m here. At first, I thought it would be impossible until after I retired, but like. It’s only been one season and I’m already bursting at the seams to just get it over with. Retirement could be another ten years from now. I don’t want to have to pretend to be a guy for a fucking decade. Personal expression is a big deal in figure skating, and having to keep up this front is really… not helpful.”

“Understandable. Well, I will tell you that I’ve not worked with anyone coming out publicly as in, to news media sources, but I have helped several other clients with coming out to friends, family, coworkers, and the like. I think we can develop a plan to make this as easy as possible for you and everyone else.”

“Alright. So um, what kind of timeline are we looking at? Like, could I do it this off-season? That’s like, ten weeks from now.”

“I think that’s plausible, though we should also consider if you want to wait to come out professionally until after any legal changes your name and/or gender marker, as that will take time too. In any case, I’ll need to learn a little bit more about professional ice skating, to see who needs to be contacted and in what order.”

Dr Sapolzhnik explains the legal process of a name change, and current legal requirements for a gender marker change. Without any medical transition, Nastya doesn’t yet qualify for a gender marker change, but a name change is doable at any stage.

They then discuss what Nastya knows of the various skating organizations and her sponsors, and come up with a basic plan, which Dr Sapolizhnik will verify on his end, and Nastya will talk to Yakov and Alexei about.

“Once the appropriate people have been notified, you then have a choice,” Dr Sapolizhnik says. “You can make a public statement on your social media and wait for it to diffuse, you can schedule an interview with a journalist of some kind, or do a press conference… Or of course, say nothing and simply arrive next season presenting as yourself. Do you have a press agent of any kind?”

“Yakov works with a lady, I don’t know her name. But she covers all of his skaters.”

“Well, she will be helpful in crafting your statement—choosing the right language to phrase it in, all that, no matter the platform. I can advise as well, of course.”

“Yeah, alright. I’m actually feeling… pretty good about all this?”

“Good, I’m glad. Coming out shouldn’t be a scary thing. It has a tendency to get built into a big, overwhelming task, but I think if we break it down, it doesn’t have to be.

“Well, I think that’s our time for today, but I want to leave you with a couple things to think about for our next visit.”

“It’s already been an hour?”

“Yes, a bit over, actually,” Dr Sapolizhnik smiles. “So, in addition to talking to Yakov and getting things in order on that front, I want you to be ready to discuss two major topics next time: First, what your ideal ‘coming out’ scenario looks like. Is it quiet and subtle, loud and proud…? What feels the most you, the most comfortable? And secondly, I’d like to talk about any medical transitioning you’re considering, like hormones or surgery. I can put you in contact with the appropriate professionals according to what you’re interested in.”

Nastya takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m… I have some ideas, but it would be good to talk things through. Okay. Well, when can we have the next session? I know scheduling is tough, but…”

After some finagling, they find a Tuesday three weeks from now that they can meet again. That should give them both plenty of time to investigate, contact people, and for Nastya, do some serious thinking and research about what kind of medical transitioning is possible as a professional athlete.

 

On Thursday, Nastya wakes up with butterflies in her stomach.

She gets up and makes breakfast, but she’s nervous.

Alexei Sidorov is calling her in an hour.

 _THE_ Alexei Sidorov. Best male ballet dancer in modern history.

A body like whipped steel that was somehow also as flexible as ribbons and as fluid as mercury.

Nastya has a poster of him on her wall.

And he’s going to _call her_. To give her _advice_.

She can’t believe it.

She texts Otabek while she tidies up her apartment a little, just to pass the time.

Finally, at nine am exactly, her phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Anastasiya Nikolaevna? This is Alexei Sidorov.”

“Hello, yes, it’s um… thank you for calling. I really appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.” _Deep breaths, dumbass. He can probably hear you fangirling all the way in Yekaterinburg._

“Of course. Liliya told me a bit about you, but I’d like to hear from you, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, uh… I mean, I’m a figure skater, but of course I do ballet stuff too, that’s how I know Liliya. She’s my coach’s ex-wife; you probably already knew that. Anyway, I um, I recently started like, actually being a girl? I’ve known for a while I wasn’t a guy, but I had a lot of… personal stuff to work through before I was ready to be out.

“But now I think I am, and I want to come out professionally, and not have to be called my old name and all that. And uh, Liliya said you might have some advice about that process.”

“Yes, I’ve gone through a similar process. Though your _stage name_ , as we might call it, is considerably better known than mine was. I was only part of the chorus when I came out. As a male danseur, I became more well known.”

“Yeah, I mean, everyone’s experiences are going to be different. We’re not even in the same sport. But… I still think it would be good to hear from someone who lived through it, you know?”

“Of course, and I’m happy to tell you about it,” Alexei says.

“I grew up in a small village outside Moscow, the youngest of five, all girls. My parents pushed us all into ballet at a young age. They believed it was an important part of a feminine upbringing. It teaches discipline, poise… you understand. As each of my sisters grew up, ballet got pushed more and more to the side, and they replaced ballet lessons with dating fine young men.

“Except as I grew older, I clung more furiously to ballet, used it as an excuse to not date. I spent much of my youth believing I was a lesbian, actually. I knew my parents would never approve of such… proclivities, so I kept it hidden, threw myself further and further into the world of ballet.

“I was accepted to the academy in Moscow, and my parents were proud of me. They told everyone they knew that I had been accepted in the ‘big city’. I was a small-town celebrity for a bit. It was there that I lived with Liliya.”

Nastya doesn’t want to interrupt, so she just waits quietly while Alexei gathers his thoughts to continue his story.

“In my village, there were no male ballet danseurs. It simply wasn’t done. Boys were meant to work the farm, run the store, learn the trade… whatever their fathers did, that was their mantle. Girls were to be delicate and docile and marry a good strong boy. This probably seems rather antiquated to you, but such is life outside of the city. And of course, this happened about fifty years ago now. Things are perhaps a bit more modern, even out in the countryside.

“Anyway, at the academy, I met male ballet danseurs for the first time. I was shocked, but I was also intensely curious. I remember asking one of the young men in my class, ‘How did your parents agree to let you take ballet lessons?’ and he laughed at me. His name was Roman, and we actually became quite good friends. People thought we were dating, so we tried it for a bit, but we soon realized we were only doing it for appearances. He broke up with me by apologizing, saying ‘I’m so sorry, but I think I’m gay.’ I simply laughed and said that I didn’t think I liked men much, in the romantic sense.

“His twin sister, Irina, was also at the academy. We were introduced through Roma, and ended up covertly dating for several months. Only Roma and Liliya knew about us. As our training went on, I found myself more and more drawn to the male danseurs: I wanted to imitate them, be more like them. My instructors scolded me for it, but I kept it up. Irina was confused by my interest, and feared for my place at the academy.

“She encouraged me to see a counselor, outside of the academy, to sort through my thoughts and feelings. I explained everything to the counselor, who asked me—what I felt was rather out of the blue—if I was transgender.

“You can imagine that this felt rather taboo to me. I had never heard the term transgender said so openly, so easily. I told the counselor that I didn’t know, but I had always just assumed I was a rather butch lesbian.

“He gave me some literature—this was pre-internet, remember—and asked me to return in a month. That whole month, I felt like there was this… horrible, burning pressure inside my chest. I became obsessed with my body: was the animosity I felt toward my more feminine features normal? Did it mean I wasn’t a girl after all? How could one not _know_ that they weren’t actually a girl by the age of seventeen? I told myself it was impossible that I was a man, because surely, I would have known before now. After all, I knew I wasn’t interested in men romantically.

“I returned to the counselor and told him that no, I wasn’t a man, I was just a lesbian. He said that was fine, and asked if I still wanted to discuss my interest in the male roles in ballet. I said yes. After several more sessions, I began to doubt again. I spoke to Irina about my confusion, and she did her best; she really did. I don’t fault her for how she acted, but she began to pull away. She said she still wanted to be my friend, but wasn’t sure if dating was the right thing for us.

“I asked Irina not to say anything to anyone else just yet. I still hadn’t really decided what my gender was, but I knew that swirling rumors would mean the end of my career. I continued seeing the counselor, and he subtly suggested that I revisit the idea of my gender. Nonbinary genders were still fairly unspoken of, so that wasn’t suggested in such terms, but I was desperate for a label, and terrified of the idea of being transgender. Surely, my family would disown me, and they were still supporting me financially.

“I spoke to Roma about masculinity, and how he knew that he was a man. He didn’t quite understand at first, but after a bit, he figured out how to express his feelings beyond ‘I just know’. I went back to the counselor and presented the _hypothetical_ situation that I was transgender, and if that were the case, what would happen?

“The counselor told me about mastectomy surgery, but this was before the use of hormones for transgender people. He told me about choosing a new name, legal issues… All of which has certainly changed since I came out, so I won’t discuss it now.

“I chose Alexei, I came out to Liliya, Roma, and Irina, and they helped me secretly get my mastectomy surgery in Saint Petersburg during the summer break. I returned to the academy, spoke to the headmaster and asked if I still had a place in the class. I full expected to be sent packing.

“The headmaster said that I would need to re-audition as a man, and that he would discuss with the other teachers how my previous classes would be treated so I didn’t have to start from the beginning, should I be accepted.

“Roma worked with me intensively, and while I wasn’t strong enough to do all of the lifts yet, I was still accepted. I was put on a special diet and weight training regimen to increase my strength as much as possible. Fortunately, I was able to gain the muscle I needed in about a year, even without testosterone.

“I completed my studies at the academy, and though a few of the companies I auditioned for after graduation did not take me, I don’t know if it was due to my skill or my assigned birth gender, I finally found a spot. I think you know the rest.”

 Nastya is quiet for a moment as she absorbs the end of Alexei’s story.

She has questions, but isn’t sure if they’re insensitive or too invasive.

“Thank you,” she says quietly when she feels like she needs to say _something_. “I… I can only imagine going through all that without the internet. You have no idea how much I’ve looked up, how much like, anonymous forums have helped me figure out that I’m trans.”

“I’m sure,” Alexei says kindly. “I’ve certainly profited from the internet myself, even as a post-transition adult.”

“Would you… Can I ask you some questions? If it’s too much or you don’t want to answer, it’s no problem, obviously.”

“Sure. What would you like to know?”

“Um, well, did you intentionally keep your uh, birth gender hidden after your academy days? I mean, I don’t think it’s really public knowledge that you’re trans. Did you hide it on purpose, or do people really not care that much?”

“I never actively hid my gender after I came out at the academy. My parents, as I predicted, disowned me for it, and made several public statements after my first major role, calling me all sorts of offensive terms. Fortunately, I had support from my company and friends, who spoke out in support of me. Three of my sisters also supported me publicly.”

“Wow. So like. For the most part, people didn’t care?”

“My company was more concerned with my physical abilities. As I performed as well as my cis peers, they didn’t care.”

“That’s really reassuring. I mean, I’m kind of in a different situation, because I’m uh, going the other way?” Nastya laughs. “Like, I’m transitioning to female, where my concern is that I’m _too_ strong, and it’s not fair to cis women.”

“Do you intend to compete in the men’s division still, then?”

“If they’ll let me, yes. I figured a woman who can land four different quads competing against triples is…”

“I understand. Well, if you’re comfortable with that arrangement, I don’t see anything wrong with it. It will mean that your gender will remain in the spotlight though. Every time you compete as Anastasiya against men, people will comment, whether positive or negative.”

Nastya sighs. “Yeah. I didn’t really think of that. But like, I can’t stop skating. That’s… not an option.”

“I understand completely,” Alexei assures her.

“So, I have another question. Did you, um, medically transition apart from the top surgery?”

“I began HRT when it became widely available to transmen, yes. I was out of my dancing prime at that point, but I wanted the other effects.”

“But I mean, you still danced after. How long did it take to like, set in? And how did it effect your body awareness? Like, did it really mess you up?”

“There was an adjustment period, and some side effects that testosterone has are different than estrogen. After a year, I would say the changes were fairly significant. In all, though, I was still able to dance how I wanted to. It doesn’t change how you control your body. You still have your muscle training.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Of course. I mean…”

“I understand. You may try an online forum to ask transwomen about their experiences with HRT, if you don’t know anyone. Especially someone close to your age might be able to give you a clearer picture.”

“That’s a good idea.” Nastya hesitates. She has another question, but it’s not about his transition, per se. “Um… I have another question, but it’s more personal, and you don’t have to answer.”

“Go ahead, Anastasiya.”

“Did you ever like, get married? You said you and Irina broke up, but… I dunno. I was curious if you found someone to love you.”

Alexei chuckles. “I did marry, eventually. I dated over the years, but things didn’t work out for a while. It had nothing to do with me being transgender, though. I was rather married to ballet for my active career, and it wasn’t until I retired from professional life and began teaching that I was able to really put in the time and emotional work of a successful relationship. But I can tell you that there are plenty of people who will love you, Anastasiya, for exactly as you are.”

“Oh, thank you. I mean, I know. I was really just curious about your personal life,” she admits. “I actually have an amazing boyfriend, and a few close friends.”

“Good. Work-life balance is difficult. Don’t neglect one for the other.”

They wrap up their phone call, and Nastya doesn’t necessarily feel that Alexei’s experience will be directly applicable to her own situation, but she feels reassured that the company and audience members didn’t care about Alexei’s gender. He was a talented danseur, and that was all that mattered, even so long ago.

Now, Nastya should have all the support she needs. If her sponsors drop her, she can just blacklist their brands. She has a powerful social media presence, after all… Assuming she doesn’t lose too much of that for coming out.

No, she won’t. There may be a few assholes out there, but surely Yuri’s Angels would still support Nastya?

 _Only one way to find out_.

The thought bothers her, though, so she sends a message to Key, asking if they lost any public support for ditching the girly girl femininity and openly discussing her gender.

In the meantime, Nastya has to get to practice, so she packs up and heads to the rink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the legal gender change, I'm using American (Illinois) law as a basis because it's what I know and in my cursory attempt to research what Russian law is, I decided that it's probably too transphobic right now anyway to fit with this 'verse.   
> Illinois law is basically that you need a physician to say that you have had "an operation" (not necessarily bottom surgery) that means you are not your agab. so! i've kinda loosely interpreted this as "medical transition" for the purposes of this 'verse. If you've got questions, comments or concerns about that, feel free to comment here or talk to me on tumblr @ricekrispyjoints :) I'm always open to discussion.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nastya second-guesses... everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the shortest chapter of them all... but oh well!  
> Edit: there was a big chunk missing?? that idk how it didn't make it, but if you read it where the chapter ends after key's message, well, there's an extra part at the end now. that was supposed to be there??? sorry about that !

With only three weeks to go before the Grand Prix Final, Nastya is starting to doubt… everything.

Is this choreography really okay? (“Yes, Anastasiya, the choreography is _fine,_ ” Yakov grumbles.) Was changing her outfit a mistake? (“Dear god, no,” Mila assures.) Should she put dried cranberries in her oatmeal this morning? (“Do you even like cranberries?” Beka asks.)

Is coming out publicly a mistake?

No one can give her an answer that makes her feel any better. They offer encouragements, promises of support and assurance that no matter what happens, they’re there for her.

She talks with Otabek daily, as always, but she can’t let herself be distracted by cute stories of Otabek’s baby cousin or a very upset swan that was on his jogging path this morning, because she _can’t stop thinking about coming out_.

She talks to her grandfather, who is being as supportive as he can, but honestly knows nothing about coming out or being a public persona and so she mostly just listens when he says he loves her no matter what and ignores what he must consider advice, but really just amounts to “believe in yourself”.

She emails Alexei Sidorov again, confiding her doubts in him. His response is frustrating, but ultimately comes from a place of experience, so she tries to look at it critically.

 

_Anastasiya,_

_Having doubts or fears about coming out is perfectly normal, especially considering you are someone in the public eye._

_Ultimately, it remains your decision. You are young, and the rashness and impatience of youth can be both a blessing and a hindrance. The people you are already out to in your life will understand if you wish to postpone this decision—be it by a few weeks, or a few years._

_They will love and support you. And if they do not, they are not worth keeping around anyway—which I’m sure you know by now. From what you have shared, I am confident that they will stand with you._

_I suggest you think back on the last year, five years, ten years of your life. What are your greatest regrets? What are your greatest accomplishments?_

_Would coming out be on the list of regrets or accomplishments next year? Five years from now? Ten years from now?_

_After I came out, I was terrified. I was uncertain if I would be accepted in the world of dance, my family disowned me, and I feared that I had made a terrible mistake. Should I have waited? I cannot say. But at the time, I felt that there was no other option but to live and_ be _a man. I made my choice based on this feeling, that I could not give my all to my craft if I was not honest about who I was, and I was willing to risk it all._

_Nowadays, of course, there is much less prejudice against trans people. Perhaps in some backwards places they will not understand, but they do not need to._

_The reactions of others, are, ultimately not important in this decision, Anastasiya. It is tempting to feel that way, but it is my belief that they do not matter. You cannot control the thoughts and feelings of others, and so to base your actions on them seems foolish, in my estimation._

_I could only dance the best way I knew how; if a critic did not care for my performance, I was of course disappointed, but knew that ultimately, I did not have the power to change their views. My art—my body, my soul—must speak for itself._

_If you feel that there is no other way for you to be, then you must do what is right by your own conscience. I advise that you follow your gut instincts._

_What do they tell you to do, Anastasiya?_

_I wish you success in your season, and peace of mind with this challenging time of your life._

_Best,_

_Alexei Sidorov_

Nastya reads and re-reads the email several times, but his words seem contradictory: first he says to really consider what she’s doing, and if she might regret it. But then he says that she should just follow her instincts and basically say “fuck it” to whoever might think this isn’t a good idea.

It’s not really what she wants to hear.

What she wants to hear, though, no one can truthfully tell her.

She wants to hear that no one will bat an eye, that everything will go smoothly and that she won’t lose any fans, sponsors, or points in future competitions. She wants to be told that this is the right decision, but annoyingly, everyone’s advice seems to boil down to “if it’s what you think is best, then it’s the right decision.”

But she doesn’t _know_ , and sure, keeping up appearances as Yuri is taking a toll on her, but what if coming out is worse? Is she about to commit career suicide?

She asks Key why they decided to come out, and Key’s reply is more direct than Alexei’s, but not very helpful.

_Hey, Nastya!_

_I guess I came out because it was early in my career, I wasn’t super well known, and I would rather make a name for myself as_ me _, instead of some girl. I felt so disassociated from my own personality, that I just couldn’t deal with it. It was like living a double-life, or an actor constantly being in-character. Too exhausting, emotionally._

_Like I’ve told you before, I’ve never skated better than I did after I came out. It was freeing._

_I know you’re already pretty established in the men’s circuit, but I think you’re talented enough and charismatic enough that you can show the world the real you and this ‘Yuri Plisetsky’ character will fade out, eventually. You’ll crush your old records under his name, and you’ll just be Anastasiya (did I spell that right? My spell checker says no, but I’m pretty sure that’s how you spelled it!)_

_Anyway, I’m always here to talk if you need a friendly ear or to rant or whatever._

_Train hard! Remember—you still have to kick butt_ on _the ice, too._

_Key_

Nastya tries to tell herself that it’s fine, that legally speaking, no one can deny her the right to compete in the men’s division, since she is still legally male. They _could_ refuse to give her fair scores and choke her out that way, though, and despite reassurances that no one is that openly hateful, she’s still scared.

Maybe she should just wait out retirement. What’s another decade of this torture?

That makes her refocus, somewhat, thinking about living like this for _years_.

But Key is probably right: as long as she can still kick butt on ice, she’ll be able to somewhat erase the memory of Yuri. He’ll always be there, though, and that worries her. What if she can’t make a name for herself as a girl? What if she fades into obscurity? What if she’s just some has-been who tanked after “becoming a girl” and no one remembers Anastasiya at all?

“Nastya, love, it’s going to be okay,” Beka tells her one night over Skype. “Coming out isn’t going to make you suddenly a terrible skater. You’ve been amazing this season, and I think you’re still working on unlocking your full potential with your new style. Besides, you have so much support within the skating community that if anyone tries anything unethical or disrespectful, we will _all_ have your back. We will stand with you. You have some of the best skaters in the world on your side.”

“I know,” Nastya sniffles, because she does, she _knows_ , but there’s something irrational that’s poisoning her thoughts like she’s never experiences before. “Thanks for putting up with me while I’m… like this. Such a mess, and everything.”

“I will love you even if you are the hottest mess in this hemisphere,” Otabek promises. “But while you may indeed be the hottest, I don’t think you’re that much of a mess. This is a lot to sort through, and you’re famous on top of that. I’m proud of you, Nastya, and I always will be.”

“Thank you,” Nastya says, and a fresh wave of tears flows down her cheeks, but this time it’s just overwhelming feelings, and not fear or panic or sadness.

 

She has another session with Dr Solozhnik, and they talk through her fears, both rational and not. When she gets home from her appointment, she has a letter from the government office confirming receipt of her name change petition, and that it is under review. 

She feels a little better, but really, she won’t know until her meeting with Yakov’s press agent, Anna Filatova.

Anna Filatova is a short, pudgy, sweet looking woman, and at first Nastya thinks there’s been some sort of mistake. Surely, this dumpy looking woman in a poorly fitted pencil skirt and frumpy tweed blazer isn’t the fierce press agent that Yakov swears is one of the best in the business.

When she introduces herself, her voice is high-pitched, and she has a slightly patronizing tone, like someone used to dealing with very young (or very stupid) people. Nastya isn’t impressed.

“Well, let’s get down to business,” Anna says as they sit at a desk in her drafty office. “I’ve crafted a letter to send to officials from the Russian Skating Federation as well as the ISU, and then a separate version for your sponsors. Please read each carefully and tell me if you have any questions or concerns.”

She hands a copy each to Yakov and Nastya.

It’s a solid page of some of the most formal Russian Nastya has ever read. She forces herself to take it all in, though, not wanting to agree to something by accident.

Once she gets past some of the fancy syntax, the letter is very deliberate. There is no explanation or justification: the letter simply states that the skater formerly known as Yuri Nikolayevich Plisetsky is to be henceforth known as Anastasiya Nikolaevna Plisetskaya. She will be referred to in all manners and for all purposes as a woman, though she will be happy to continue competing in the men’s division, should they decide that her physique is an unfair advantage in the women’s division. Proof of legal name change will be forthcoming. A public statement will be issued by Anastasiya Nikolaevna after the conclusion of the Grand Prix Final. Any questions or concerns may be directed to Anna Filatova.

The letter to her sponsors has slightly different wording, and explains that they would like to renegotiate a few product-specific endorsements, to switch from the men’s to the women’s lines.

Both Nastya and Yakov agree that the letters are accurate and Nastya is comfortable with the language used for her.

Carefully, Nastya signs her name twice: once as Yuri since that is still her legal name, and once as Anastasiya, and then Yakov signs, and finally Anna signs.

“Great, I’ll send this along this week, and I’ll contact you when they respond,” Anna says.

“That’s it?” Nastya asks.

“Unless you have other questions or concerns,” Anna says cheerfully.

“I mean, what sort of statement am I issuing after the Final? Do I get to write that?”

“If you’d like. I would feel more comfortable if you at least tell me what you’re going to say first, just so I’m prepared, but yes. Or of course, if you don’t want to write it, I would be happy to draft something.”

“No, I um, I actually have an idea.”

Nastya glances nervously at her coach and the press agent, but she lays out her plan.

“You’re going to make me go bald,” Yakov groans. “But it’s certainly very you.”

“I can’t say I don’t have some suggestions,” Anna says. “But in general, it’s a good plan. Dramatic, but good. Let’s do it.”

 

Two days later, Anna Filatova calls Yakov, who calls Nastya. The Russian Skating Federation has replied to their letter. They meet again in Anna’s office.

Anna greets them in that ridiculous voice of hers, hands them each a copy of the reply, and gives them a moment to read it over.

They want the official name change paperwork as soon as it’s available and an updated medical record.

“They want to know about your medical transition status,” Anna says. “Which as I understand it, you have not begun?”

“Right,” Nastya says.

“I’ll tell them that you don’t have any medical changes at this time,” Anna says, jotting down a note.

The RSF agrees that it would be unfair for Nastya to compete against ciswomen, but will permit her to remain in the men’s division “as long as her legal status permits”.

“This is kind of a shitty wording,” Anna says, and Nastya has to stifle a laugh at this woman swearing. “At least they didn’t say you can’t medically transition; they just don’t want you to change your legal gender marker. Which… I can look into, discrimination law-wise, if that’ll be a problem for you.”

“I think for now, it’s fine. I mean, I don’t qualify for a legal gender change without any medical transition anyway,” Nastya says.

“Alright, well you let me know if that becomes an issue in the future, and I’ll work on it. In fact, I’ll look into it anyway, just so we know.” Anna makes a few more notes. “Any other questions or concerns?”

Yakov shakes his head, and Nastya shrugs.

“Good. I’ll let you know when I hear from the ISU then,” Anna says, and that’s that.

 

They’re back in Anna’s office the next day with the reply from the ISU. Their letter reads similarly to the RSF, but it seems a little more inclusive and even has a statement about how the ISU welcomes “diversity”, and doesn’t mention anything about her legal gender status.

“I’ll tell them the same thing about your name change paperwork and medical file,” Anna says. “Anything else?”

Again, Yakov and Nastya can’t think of anything, so they leave it to Anna.

“Great,” she says. “Now, Anastasiya, I drafted a couple versions of a statement you can use when you’re asked for a comment about your name change and gender presentation. You don’t have to memorize them word for word, necessarily, but they’re meant to serve as a guide. You don’t owe anyone in the press any information if you don’t want to share it. They don’t need to know things like ‘oh, when did you know you were a girl?’ or ‘why did you wait to tell the public?’ and if they ask you about your genitals, you don’t say a word, just get their names and I will have their press badges revoked. Understood?”

Nastya is admittedly taken aback by this tiny, frumpy woman. She definitely sees now why Yakov swears by her: she may not look the part, but she means business. Nastya just nods in agreement.

Anna sends them on their way, telling Nastya to look over the statements and get back to her with any questions.

“Ultimately, it’s your life, and your personal information. But you can’t take it back once it’s out there, so just be thoughtful about what you share. When you’re old and retired and don’t give a fuck anymore, you can write a memoir and spill all the juicy details. Until then, I advise a more tight-lipped policy.”

“Got it,” Nastya says.

 

With everything going on with her impending coming out, Nastya is feeling surprisingly calm about her routines now that she knows the two major organizations that hold her career in their hands have basically okayed her existence and continued status as a professional skater. Plus, a few sponsors have reached out to renegotiate their contracts, and they’ve all been amicably worded and seemed open to continuing their support.

It’s a weight off her shoulders, and she feels more and more confident when she thinks about her big reveal after the Final.

She hasn’t decided if she wants to tell Otabek what the exact plan is, because she kind of thinks it would be more fun to surprise him. But she also wants him to help provide a wall of support in a worst-case scenario, so she’s a little torn.

She decides at the very least, she’ll forewarn Viktor and Yuuri, and see what they think about surprising Otabek with it all.

Yuuri worries that her plan is too brash, but Viktor, ever the dramatic one, loves it.

“It won’t be as impressive if you don’t win the gold, though,” he comments.

“Have you seen my routines lately? I’m gonna take the gold.”

“So confident, especially when you’re two for two on silvers in the series thus far.”

“The plan is to take gold, so I’m gonna take gold,” Nastya asserts, crossing her arms stubbornly.

“Well, we’ll see. Not that I don’t want your coming out to go well, but you’re going to have to fight Otabek and JJ for that gold.”

“Fuck JJ,” Nastya says reflexively.

“I thought you were dating Otabek,” Viktor says with a shit-eating grin. Nastya punches him in the arm.

“Shut up! I would _never_ —Eugh, sex with JJ? Disgusting. Not a chance. No.” Nastya shudders dramatically.

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “No one’s going to mention the fact that JJ is _married_?”

“Didn’t he and Isabelle split?” Nastya asks.

“Wait, what?” Yuuri says.

“Yeah, that’s what I heard, anyway. Couple months ago.”

“Wow, I had no idea,” Yuuri says.

“It was a _joke_ ,” Viktor pouts, bringing them back to the topic at hand.

“It was a pretty lame joke,” Yuuri says.

“Thank you,” Nastya says. “Seriously, your humor is awful, Viktor.”

“You just don’t appreciate my wit.”

“ _I’m_ at my wit’s end!” Yakov yells, interrupting. “All of you, get back to work!”

 

Two days before she leaves for the Final, Nastya gets a large envelope in the mail.

The return address says it’s from the government, so she tears it open right there in the foyer by the mailboxes.

There’s a letter that she ignores for the moment, because there’s something more precious inside: her new passport and ID card, stating that she is _officially_ Anastasiya Nikolaevna Plisetskaya.

“EEEEEEEEE!” she screeches.

She runs upstairs to her apartment, dialing Otabek’s number on the way.

He picks up while she’s trying to jam her keys into the lock.

“Nastya?” Otabek asks after she swears when she drops her keys.

“Beka! Hi! Beka, I got it! My name change is official! It went through!”

She finally gets the key in the lock and throws the door open, flinging herself face first on her bed.

“That’s fantastic!” Otabek says. “Snap me a picture or something, I want to see it.”

Nastya does as she’s asked, and waits for it to go through. A moment later, Otabek stifles a laugh. “Oh my gosh, Nastya, what’s with the face?”

“What the fuck is wrong with my face?” she demands.

“You look like you want to kill someone in your ID,” Otabek says.

“You’re not supposed to smile in official photos!”

“Yeah, but you’re not supposed to plot murder, either.”

“Bekaaaa,” Nastya whines.

“Don’t worry, you’re still cute.”

“Damn right I am.”

 

The night before she has to leave for the Final, Nastya treats herself to the best self-care she knows how to do. She gets a bath bomb, lights a couple candles, and does her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head to keep it from getting too wet.

She misses the onsen that Yuuri’s family runs, briefly, but her tub will have to do for now.

She has a fully charged phone, soft music playing, and she sinks into the bath with a long, contented sigh.

She thinks about what her life will look like post-coming out. She can post all of her cute, girly selfies, for one. And she can be open about her relationship with Otabek, too.

She also thinks about what she’ll look and feel like after HRT: she knows that her face will soften up, that she might grow real, actual breasts and actually _need_ a bra. Her body will redistribute itself a little, giving her a more feminine form.

She thinks it’ll be good: the forums she’s been on have all shared, for the most part, positive experiences with HRT, and the before and after photos make her heart swell.

She thinks of the cute outfits she’ll wear, both on and off the ice.

Coming out _has_ to be the right call, she thinks definitively.

The irrational worries and doubts have all faded from her mind, and by the time the bath isn’t warm enough anymore, she climbs out, puts on a pair of cute pajamas, and goes to bed with a small but resolute smile on her face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the big finale left !


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Prix Finale, the Big Reveal, and a Happy Ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH. It's done ! I had such a blast writing this.  
> Again, a million thanks to coolhopefulbouqetturtle on tumblr for helping me brainstorm, pick out outifts, hairstyles... panic to... all of that. you're good people.  
> despite the suggestions of harrietamidala and siseja about making this a nod to conchita wurst and *that* phoenix, i decided to keep my original plan. your idea was amazing! i was just too lazy to rewrite it xDD
> 
> EDIT: so APPARENTLY the winking emojis that were supposed to be there caused the end of the chapter to get cut off ???? i'm so sorry y'all

The flight to Vancouver, Canada is a disgusting fifteen hours from Saint Petersburg.

Nastya steps off the plane feeling like she’s just gotten over a nasty cold: dry, hungry, and in desperate need of a shower.

She’s wearing sunglasses and a hat to disguise herself from potential cameras. She had dressed in comfortable travel clothes: a loose t-shirt and hoodie with leggings and flats. She wanted to take full advantage of having her new passport, but she also didn’t want her secret to come out before the Final. She’s supposed to wait until _after_.

They make it to their hotel without incident, and Nastya forces herself to shower and not collapse in bed.

Otabek won’t be here for another couple of hours, so she hangs out with Viktor and Yuuri in the hotel lobby just for something to do.

When they run out of small talk topics, they decide to go on a short excursion for something to eat.

They find a bubble tea shop, and Yuuri makes puppy dog eyes at Viktor until he agrees that they can get bubble tea.

While Nastya struggles to decipher the menu, she feels a tug at her sleeve.

She looks around, and then down, and sees a small child, maybe six years old, tugging on her hoodie sleeve.

“Can I help you?” Nastya asks, trying to not let her fatigue come out against this little girl. She cringes at her accent; it’s been a while since she’s spoken much English out loud.

“You have really pretty hair,” she says.

“Uh, thanks,” Nastya says. She had left it down after her shower, and she doesn’t think it looks like anything special right now, but little kids are easily impressed.

“I want to be a pretty lady like you when I grow up,” the girl continues.

An overwhelming amount of pure _feeling_ floods Nastya’s chest.

“Well you’re pretty cute now, so I think you’ve got a good shot at it,” Nastya says.

The little girl smiles and says thank you before running back off to her parents.

When Nastya looks forward again, Viktor and Yuuri are staring at her with dopey smiles.

“That was _adorable_ ,” Viktor says. “Oh my gosh, I wish I had gotten that on camera. Nastya Plisetskaya being nice to a small child. Incredible.”

“Oi, I’m perfectly nice to small children!”

“Is that what you call your behavior towards Yuuko’s triplets? ‘Perfectly nice’?” Yuuri asks.

“Those three are a menace to society and you _know it_ ,” Nastya defends. “Besides, they’re not small children anymore. They’re like ten. Double digits qualifies you as like, regular children.”

“Technically they’re still nine, so by your definition, still small children. And they were only six when you first met them, and you weren’t very hospitable.”

“I think we can all agree I was working through some _shit_ back then, ok? Cut me some slack.”

“Fine, fine. I just think it’s nice to see you being so polite to a stranger, no matter their age,” Yuuri says. “Anyway, do you want me to order for you, or would you like some more English practice?”

“How do you say that one I liked so much? Raichee?”

“I think the American pronunciation is lee-chee,” Yuuri says.

“Okay. I can order then,” Nastya says, and steps up to the counter to tell the employee what she wants. 

“Are you guys from out of town?” the worker asks.

“Gee, what gave us away?” Nastya quips.

“Nastya, weren’t you just saying how nice you can be?” Viktor says politely in his best English. “Yes, we’re here for the skating competition.”

“Oh, how exciting! I wanted to go, but the tickets were kind of expensive, and I’m on shift anyway. Enjoy the show, though!” she says.

Nastya snorts at the implication that they’ll simply be _watching_ the competition. Well, Viktor is, but that’s his problem.

The employee gives them their bubble tea and they thank her and leave the shop, continuing to wander around and window shop.

Finally, Nastya gets a text from Otabek saying he’ll be at the hotel in about thirty minutes.

Nastya insists they head back so she doesn’t miss him, and Viktor and Yuuri oblige her.

 

Sure enough, Otabek arrives and Nastya pops up behind him and scares him half to death.

She laughs when he gasps, and he frowns at her.

She looks around furtively for cameras, and seeing no reporters around, presses a quick kiss to Otabek’s cheek.

“Hi,” she says.

“Let me go get checked in, and then I’ll meet you at your room?” Otabek suggests.

“Perfect. I’m in 403.”

“See you soon.”

Otabek rejoins his coach at the front desk, and Viktor waggles his eyebrows at Nastya.

“No funny business before the competition,” he says.

“Ugh, don’t be gross,” she throws back at him, and heads up to her room to wait for Otabek.

As promised, they don’t get up to any ‘funny business’; apart from some kissing, they keep their contact chaste.

They talk about the competition, who they think they’ll share the podium with—because of course, the plan is that they’ll go one-two.

“If it’s JJ again I’m going to scream,” Nastya says.

“JJ’s not a bad guy,” Otabek says tiredly.

“He’s an ass and his music choice is shit. It’s been three years and I still can’t get that damn ‘I’m the King JJ’ refrain out of my head.”

“Okay, that was a little… over the top, sure. But his music this year isn’t terrible.”

“Oh, what an endorsement: it ‘isn’t terrible’.”

Otabek rolls his eyes. “I don’t care who takes third,” he says after a moment. “I just want it to be you and me with gold and silver, and the rest… Who cares.”

“Now that is a sentiment I can get behind.”

 

Nastya has to force herself to really focus the morning of the competition. For her big reveal, she wants no less than a gold medal around her neck.

But that means she has to push aside her thoughts of coming out, so she can win.

She’s working on getting in the zone when none other than her _favorite_ Canadian walks over.

“How’s it going, Plisetsky?” JJ asks.

“I’m busy,” she says, turning away from him. _Do not engage, do not engage…_

“Ready for another taste of _silver_? It’s been a rough season for you.”

“Fuck _off_ , jackass,” she says. “I’m not interested in anything you could possibly say to me.”

“Not even that I know a great rumor about you?”

Nastya scoffs. “I have the internet too. I know the rumors about me.”

“Oh, but this one’s hot off the presses: it says you and a certain Kazakh skater have a bad case of the gay for each other.”

Nastya doesn’t know whether to laugh or be worried or be confused. “Creative,” she says. “Is that all you got?”

“Are you together, then?” JJ asks, a smarmy grin on his face.

“What’s it to you?”

“Well if you’re not, maybe I could take you out sometime. Show you around the city. I mean, I’m not from Vancouver, but I know it well enough.”

Nastya busts out laughing. “Oh my gosh, is this a joke? In what universe do you think I would accept a date with _you_ , of all people?”

“Why not? I’m handsome, charming, and incredibly talented.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Your modesty is like, _so_ attractive,” Nastya deadpans. “But in all seriousness, you couldn’t pay me enough to go on a date with you.”

“How about, if I win gold, you go on a date with me?” JJ asks.

“How about, _I_ win gold instead, and still turn you down.”

“Fine. No date. But it won’t be you on top of that podium,” JJ says breezily.

“Since when are you even interested in me?” Nastya asks. “We’re barely civil to each other.”

“Well they do say opposites attract,” JJ says, and with that he leaves.

“What the fuck,” Nastya whispers.

Concentration shot, Nastya goes off to find Otabek and tell him about what just happened.

When she finds him, he’s being scolded by his coach in rather aggressive sounding Kazakh.

 _Guess I’ll wait til later to tell him_ , Nastya thinks.

 

Before she knows it, the competition begins.

JJ is up first, and he takes the ice with his usual bravado.

Once the music starts though, it’s clear that something is… _off_.

For starters, he’s not on rhythm. His movements are over the top, almost a mockery of his usual routine.

Nastya is sitting with Yakov, Viktor, and Yuuri, and they all look on in confusion.

“What the fuck is this?” Nastya whispers to Viktor.

“Maybe… he’s experimenting,” Viktor says. “Though _why_ he would choose to do it here at the Final is… unclear.”

“He was acting weird earlier, too,” Nastya says.

The crowd “ooh”s as JJ falls on a quad lutz, and for a split second, Nastya thinks he’s not going to get up and finish his program.

He does, though, and the fall seems to have jostled him for the better. The rest of his skate is shaky but not… whatever that was.

His score comes up, and Nastya is surprised it’s even that high.

“Well, things can’t possibly get any weirder than that,” she says, and Yakov grumbles his agreement.

Yuuri is up next, and Nastya is worried about him. His tweaked muscle from earlier in the season has been acting up again, and he didn’t look so hot in warm ups.

His skate goes fairly smoothly, but it’s clear that he’s not on top of his game. In any case, his scores blows JJ’s out of the water.

Phichit is up next, and he revives the competition. His song is upbeat, his costume bright, his energy contagious, and today is very clearly an “on” day for the Thai skater.

His steps are clean, his jumps are high, and he easily scores ahead of Yuuri. 

Nastya feeds off his energy; she’s wearing her purple outfit today, and she’s also added a fake passion flower to her hair, pinned to her off-center bun. She’s wearing shimmery eye makeup and she’s contoured the hell out of her cheekbones. Mila had supervised, but ultimately concluded that Nastya is a master of contouring.

Her music starts, and she just knows that she’s in the flow. She’s connected, she’s fluid, and best of all, she doesn’t feel like ‘Yuri’ at all. The anticipation of coming out at the end of all this is fueling her, and she couldn’t be more ready.

She feels like she can see herself performing from afar, she’s so aware of the movements of her body and the slope of her limbs.

When she strikes her final pose, she knows she’s in first.

In the Kiss and Cry with Yakov, she smiles and waves at the cameras like she _never_ does, and blows a kiss towards where Otabek is sitting with his coach. Her scores come up…

A new personal record.

She beat her personal record, and is just half a point behind the current world record (set by Yuuri last season, damn him).

She laughs at how close she came to dethroning him, and tells Yakov that she’s going to break her FS record tomorrow, too.

Leo de la Iglesia follows her, and the pressure of his first Grand Prix Final is obvious. He’s trembling like a leaf, and his skating is stiff. He struggles with his first quad landing, and the rest of the skate is unremarkable.

Finally, it’s Otabek’s turn.

He’s in that gorgeous gold shirt that Nastya loves so much, and his face is serious and focused as it always is on the ice.

His skating is powerful and self-assured, as always, but there’s a certain spark missing in his performance today. Nastya cheers as he lands each of his jumps, whistles as he executes a nice tight spin.

It won’t be enough to beat her score, certainly, but she’s proud of him anyway and when his score comes up, he’s in third, just behind Phichit.

The end of the day standings are slightly different than expected, with Yuuri’s injury putting him in fourth, JJ’s bizarre performance landing him in last, and an impressive showing from Phichit that has him in second.

Nastya hangs out to watch the women’s competition, excited that Mila, Sara, and Key all qualified. They’re up against that feisty Lithuanian girl, Ieva Rimšaitė, who took first in both of her events.

Key had mentioned that they just barely qualified for the final, but Nastya is still proud of her friend, and promised to cheer them on.

“It’s not about the place I get,” Key had said. “It’s about turning in a performance I can be proud of, and the standings will be whatever they are. It’s only my second year in seniors, so to already make the final… I’m thrilled.”

Ieva is up first, and the only word that comes to mind when Nastya sees her take the ice is “poise”. This girl, freshly turned seventeen, looks like she could make Liliya tremble in fear.

She skates to a classical song, but Nastya isn’t even thinking about the music: she’s thinking _I wish I looked like that when I skated_.

Sara Crispino, then a girl Nastya doesn’t know from Romania, then Key, then Mila, and finally an American girl skate.

Ieva is the frontrunner, with Sara and Mila neck and neck in second and third, respectively. The American girl is in fourth, then Key, and lastly the Romanian skater.

After the competition finishes for the day, Nastya meets up with Mila and Yakov to go over the day, plans for the rest day and the Free Skate.

Back at the hotel, Nasty and Mila hang out, until they’re joined by Viktor and Yuuri.

Otabek had texted that he had to stay with his coach, so he couldn’t come hang out, but they would see each other tomorrow. Nastya tries to not be too bummed out, but she’s worried about what could be so important with his coach that he has _no_ free time this evening.

Yakov shows up and treats them all to dinner, though he says it’s officially paid for by a sponsor and not from his own pockets.

Nastya texts Otabek again after dinner, but doesn’t get a reply.

 

In the morning, Nastya wakes up at seven to her alarm blaring.

She has four unread texts from Otabek, and as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes, she unlocks her phone to read them.

              From: **Beka**

Hey sorry I’ve been out of touch. Temir is

              From: **Beka**

Sorry didn’t mean to send. Temir is watching me like a hawk

              From: **Beka**

Let me know when you’re up so I can tell you what happened.

              From: **Beka**

Also what happened with JJ??? You mentioned he said weird things to you… and then that SP was… whatever that was

 

Nastya sends a quick text saying she’s awake and will be ready for breakfast in twenty if he wants to join her.

She sets to combing out and braiding her hair, deciding on a fishtail braid for today. She puts on neutral, comfortable clothes and waits for Otabek to reply.

A few minutes later, and there’s a knock at her door.

She checks through the peephole, and sure enough, it’s her boyfriend.

And Temir.

She opens the door. “Hey, Beka. Uh, Temir. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Yuri,” Temir says.

Otabek gives an apologetic smile. “Breakfast?”

She grabs her phone, and the three of them head downstairs.

Once their plates are filled with food, they sit at a table off to the side and begin to eat, the silence getting more and more uncomfortable.

Nastya wants to know why Temir is with them, but she doesn’t know how to ask without being rude.

Seeming to read her mind, Temir clears his throat after he takes a swig of his coffee.

“So, you’re probably wondering why I tagged along this morning,” Temir says.

“Uh… I mean, it’s not that you aren’t welcome…” Nastya tries, but she knows it’s not very convincing.

“It has come to my attention the particular _nature_ of your and Otabek’s relationship,” Temir says primly.

Otabek puts his face in his hands, embarrassed.

“The ‘nature’ of our… relationship?” Nastya asks quietly.

“You two are dating, are you not?” Temir asks.

Oh.

She looks to Otabek to figure out what Temir already knows, but Otabek just makes a face that she’s not sure how to interpret.

“Boyfriend and… well, boyfriend?” Temir presses when neither one of them speaks.

Well at least Temir doesn’t seem to know that she’s a girl. At this point, she supposes it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, seeing as she’s coming out as soon as this competition wraps, but still.

“Temir, I already admitted that much,” Otabek says, finally.

“How did you, uh, figure it out?” Nastya asks. “And is it… a problem?”

“You’re not very subtle,” Temir says. “I’ve been piecing things together for a while now. Blowing kisses to each other from the Kiss and Cry, Otabek staying at your apartment for Rostelecom… the fact that I’ve never seen Otabek smile this much. Every time he makes this ridiculous face at his phone and I ask what he’s looking at, he always says that it’s ‘Just Yuri’. There’s nothing ‘just’ about you, is there?”

Nastya is blushing, but lets her silence speak for itself.

“Now, there’s nothing wrong with being gay, I want you both to know that I support you. But you’re still very young—”

“I’m almost twenty, and Beka’s twenty-two,” Nastya interrupts. “We’re not that young.”

“You’re still _young_ ,” Temir repeats emphatically, “and I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be spending so much time, especially during competitions, behind closed doors.”

“Oh my god,” Otabek groans. “I told you, we’re not _doing_ anything. Everything is very proper and—“

“I think we have different definitions of ‘proper’,” Temir says sternly. “Think of what your mother would say, Otabek. Canoodling in private like you have been.” He shakes his head and Otabek groans.

“Yuri, does Yakov know about you two?” Temir continues on. “Surely he doesn’t approve of _shenanigans_ during competitions.”

Come to think of it, Nastya isn’t sure if Yakov knows about her relationship with Otabek. She hasn’t really censored herself, but she can’t remember if she’s said anything direct in front of Yakov.

“I don’t know if he knows,” Nastya says, “but it doesn’t matter. Beka and I are skating better than ever, we’re not messing around during competitions; we take our jobs seriously. We’re both consenting adults, and we don’t need your permission to be together.”

“I’m not saying that. I understand that you’re adults, but Otabek is still my responsibility. I don’t think it’s wise for him to be so unfocused during the season.”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t approve of him dating.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Well that’s what it sounded like,” Nastya says, crossing her arms.

“Allow me to rephrase: I would feel more comfortable if you two would spend your free time… in the company of others.”

“No offense, Temir, but you should probably see a doctor about whatever crawled up your ass and died there. We’re not _fucking_ , if you must know, and it’s not affecting our performance! Let us fucking live, god damn.”

“Na—Yura,” Otabek says.

Nastya shoots him a look. “What.”

“Temir is just being a little… protective. How about we hang out in public places for this tournament, and then discuss this further when we have more time? You know, _after_ the Final,” Otabek says meaningfully.

She’s not sure if her coming out will change Temir’s policy; whether she’s a boy or a girl isn’t going to change the fact that they’re dating, but maybe having all their cards on the table will make this conversation less of a pain in the ass.

“Fine, but for the record this is bullshit.”

“Your opinion is duly noted,” Temir says dryly.

 

They finish breakfast up, and Otabek suggests they go for a walk for some casual exercise and fresh air. It’s chilly, late fall in Canada, but Nastya agrees.

Temir offers to come with them, but Otabek smoothly declines, saying that they’ll remain in a public place and don’t need a chaperone like middle schoolers at their first dance.

They wander until they find a quiet café, order a pot of tea to share, and find a table in the back, away from the windows.

It’s early yet, and there’s no other customers in their section of the café, so Nastya steals a couple of quick kisses.

“Now can I tell you about the weird shit JJ said before the SP yesterday?” Nastya asks.

“Yes, please. I’m curious if it has anything to do with whatever happened with his performance.”

“Honestly it doesn’t explain anything at all,” Nastya says. “So first, he says he heard a rumor that you and I were having a gay love affair. I was a little worried about blowing our cover, so I played it off, like ‘what’s it to you?’ And he was like, well if you’re single, I could take you out on the town.”

“What?” Otabek asks in utter disbelief, stopping mid-drink.

“Yeah! I thought it was some stupid joke that I didn’t get, but no, he started giving me like, actual reasons why I should date him.”

“Were you accidentally nice to him recently?”

“No! Some of my first words to him this competition were ‘fuck off, jackass’!”

“Yeah, that would be hard to misinterpret as kindness… Okay but you turned him down, right?”

Nastya shoves him, and spills some of his tea as it sloshes over his hand. “Beka who the fuck do you think I am? Of course I said no. Even if I _wasn’t_ happily dating you, I would have told him no. He could be the last man on _Earth_ and I would—“

“Okay, okay! I was just checking!” Otabek laughs. “That is honestly so bizarre, though. I mean, I know he and Isabelle broke up a while ago, but the fact that he tried to ask you out, when you’re not even on friendly terms?”

“Like I said. Shit was weird,” Nastya says.

“And then he skated like… that.”

Nastya just nods.

“I feel like I should go talk to him, just to see if he’s okay,” Otabek says after a pause.

“You don’t have to do that, Beka.”

“I know, but I mean, we’re still at least _friendly_ , if not really friends anymore. I think it’s the right thing to do.”

“Fine, but for now let’s talk about something else. Unless you want to hear what JJ considers his top datable qualities,” she says, waggling her eyebrows before fake gagging.

“No, that won’t be necessary. Let’s talk about something other than JJ trying to steal my girlfriend.”

“Oh fine,” Nastya laughs. “Do you want to hear about the exhibition skate I have planned?”

“Don’t get cocky now,” Otabek teases. “But sure, tell me about it.”

“Well the song is by Fall Out Boy,” she says, and she lays out the details of her plan.

“Nastya, you are… unbelievable. I mean that in the most loving, amazing way. But… wow.”

Nastya smiles smugly. “I know, right?”

She goes on to tell him about her plans for the banquet, but leaves just enough mystery that Otabek won’t know what hit him.

“How do you feel about our relationship going public right after? Because I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep my hands to myself,” Otabek says.

“Behave,” Nastya says, but she’s thrilled that she can have this effect on her boyfriend. “I mean, as long as you’re okay with us being public, I’m down. We agreed after I came out we could tell people about us. In my book, what does it matter if we only wait five minutes?”

“Perfect,” Otabek says, and kisses the tip of her nose.

 

The morning of the Free Skate, Nastya wakes up ten full minutes before her alarm practically vibrating with energy.

Sure, she’s been pumped for competitions before, but this isn’t just any competition. It’s _the_ Grand Prix Final. The one where she’s going to smash her own world record, take gold, and come out in a blaze of glory to the world.

Get your cameras ready.

JJ is up first after his disastrous Free Skate, and Nastya finds that she is morbidly curious how this is going to go.

JJ looks like he hasn’t slept, and seems less frenetic than yesterday, which is probably a good thing. _Was he like, hopped up on too much caffeine or something yesterday?_ Nastya wonders. She checks her phone, and sure enough, Otabek has texted her about JJ.

From: **Beka**

When I asked if everything was ok he just started mumbling all crazy like. I could barely understand a word he said, just caught “scandal” and “disaster” and something about his career?

From: **Nastya**

Damn. Well whatever, works for me if he wants to shit the bed

 

JJ’s skating is better today, but that’s a pretty low bar. He only manages two quads, though he steps out on one, and he downgrades the other one he had planned.

At least today’s free skate score is an almost respectable number, Nastya thinks. Though considering this is the Final and not the first meet of the season, it’s still pretty bad.

Leo is up next, and he seems just about as rattled as he was yesterday. Despite JJ’s flub yesterday, he holds on to first for the time being.

Yuuri is up next, and Nastya can tell before he even takes the ice that he’s hurting.

She turns to Yakov. “Is it a good idea for him to be skating today?”

“I asked Vitya the same question, and he informed me that Yuuri will not be stopped.”

“At this rate he’s going to have to pull out of Four Continents, though.”

“I said the same. Vitya insisted.”

“What the hell are they thinking?” Nastya wonders aloud.

Yuuri soldiers through his routine, not even attempting any quads. He pours his soul into whatever his body will let him do, though, and the performance is riveting despite the downgrades and the obvious pain he must be in.

It’s not enough to beat JJ’s score, but Yuuri just looks relieved as he holds Viktor’s hand in the Kiss and Cry.

Otabek is up next, and Nastya watches anxiously, yelling “Davai!” loudly.

He’s just barely in third, so if he skates well today, he could get the silver. Nastya _so_ wants him to get silver. (Because gold is _hers_ , dammit.)

The set of his shoulders reflects his concentration and his determination, and his skate is clean and powerful.

Nastya is a little surprised to realize how turned on she is by the end of his performance.

Luckily, she has Phichit’s Free Skate to calm down.

In the Kiss and Cry, Otabek awaits his scores. When they come in, he pumps his fist: a new personal record for Otabek, and a clear first place, for the moment.

Nastya screams and claps, so proud of her boyfriend for his new PR. She wants to turn to whoever is nearest to her and yell ‘That’s my boyfriend!’ but whatever remains of her common sense allows her to hold her tongue.

When the cameras are trained on him, he grabs his heart and mouths ‘I love you’ in Russian.

“Very subtle,” Yakov grumbles.

“Oh hush,” Nastya says, shooting her coach a dirty look.

“I mean, I suspected that was what was going on with you two, but…”

“But what? That’s right, but nothing,” Nastya says, feeling very much like a petulant child. Whatever. She doesn’t have to put up with her coach harassing her over her love life. “I’m gonna do a little stretching while Phichit skates,” Nastya says, and walks a few feet away to get some space from Yakov.

She can still feel the side eye, but it’s better.

 She doesn’t pay much attention to Phichit’s skate, but judging by the cheers of the crowd, it’s a good one. She can only hope that Otabek’s new PR is high enough to stop Phichit from overtaking him.

Sure enough, when the scores come in, Phichit is exactly one point behind Otabek.

Nastya whoops again, happy for Otabek.

Now she needs to go kick his ass.

He didn’t make it easy for her, with that PR, but she’s got a world record to beat. She wants this win to be as flashy as possible.

She’s in her red and black ensemble today, hair done up in two French braids that join together into a bun in the back. She has red eyeshadow and heavy black eyeliner on, and more blush than is strictly necessary.

She’s dramatic: sue her.

As she skates out into the center of the ice to start her program, she feels herself zone in: she feels calm but energized, and ready to perform.

Everything but her music becomes background noise, barely noticeable in the heat of the moment. She throws everything she has into these four minutes: every ounce of sass and chutzpah and flirtiness she can muster. Her jumps are high, her spins are tight, and her steps are clean.

She can feel the adrenaline high building as she enters the second half, letting the cello and piano trade off the melody as she swirls along with the notes.

She’s not thinking about which move comes next, where her arms should be: her mind is a million miles away from technique, and all she knows is the _feeling_.

The freedom, the joy, the _passion_ of the ice.

She strikes her final pose as the music ends, and the roar of the crowd comes filtering back into her ears.

She pumps a fist in the air, yelling once because that performance was _exactly_ what she wanted to do. She takes her bows, chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline.

Nastya picks up a pair of cat ears from the ice just because they’re the first pink pair she’s ever been tossed, and she heads to the Kiss and Cry where Yakov is looking incredibly proud.

He holds out a hand, and she shakes it with a firm grip.

“Well done, Anastasiya,” he says quietly, covering his mouth.

“Thank you, Yakov.”

They take a seat on the bench, and Nastya makes faces at the camera just because she can.

Her scores come up and—

“FUCK _YES_!” she yells. She beat her previous world record by less than half a point, but she beat it.

The gold medal is hers.

 

The morning of the Exhibition skate, a very confusing rumor surfaces at seven fifteen, and is then confirmed only an hour later by the concerned skater himself: Jean-Jacques Leroy has tested positive for an illegal substance, and will be withdrawing from the rest of the season.

“No!” Nastya yells when she reads the headline. “That asshole is _stealing my spotlight,_ ” she hisses.

Viktor and Yuuri are confused as well, and sympathize with Nastya. “This is certainly an eventful competition,” Yuuri says, aiming for diplomatic.

The substance is not named, so everyone is abuzz wondering what it was. The guesses range from steroids to methamphetamines, and Nastya can’t honestly say she knows which one she thinks it might have been.

 All she knows is she’s pissed that his scandal is going to cloud over her glorious coming out.

 _No,_ she tells herself. _I took gold, I set a new world record, and I’m going to steal the fucking show right back from that asshat._

She and Otabek text about it, and Otabek seems disappointed in his old friend, but doesn’t want to talk about it too much and detract from Nastya’s more positive news.

“It’s… It’s sad, that it happened. But I don’t want to draw attention to the negatives right now,” Beka says at dinner. Temir agrees.

“It makes the rest of you look bad,” Temir says.

“No, it makes JJ look bad. He’s the only one who tested positive. It doesn’t defame all of skating just because some Canadian chucklefuck did drugs,” Nastya says.

“I suppose not,” Temir cedes, “but it does put the skating community under more scrutiny.

“Well, just you hang onto your hats,” Nastya promises. “I’ll give them something new to talk about at the Exhibition skate.”

Temir looks doubtful, but Otabek and Nastya exchange knowing looks.

 

The Exhibition skate is held that afternoon, and Nastya thinks she might be even more excited to perform this routine than her world-record breaking Free Skate.

She watches the other routines distractedly. Everyone is still talking about JJ and she can’t wait to shut them all up.

Her look today is… simple. Unassuming, one might say.

She’s wearing loose black pants and a loose black shirt, and her hair is smoothed back in a simple pony tail, no braids or anything.

She _is_ wearing bright red lipstick, but that’s about it.

Finally, it’s her turn. The announcer calls Yuri Plisetsky, Gold Medalist of the Grand Prix Final and Free Skate world record holder, to the ice, and she smirks before schooling her features into a more neutral expression.

The music starts up, the aggressive strings establishing the beat.

_Put on your warpaint_

Nastya’s routine is rough, aggressive, pounding along to the music.

_So dance alone to the beat of your heart_

The drums and guitars bang twice, and as the chorus begins, Nastya yanks aggressively at the Velcro on the boring black shirt and pants to reveal her _real_ outfit: a fitted, sparkling dress that starts purple and fades down into a fiery red in the skirt. The bodice is adorned with a sort of diamond pattern of crystals, and the back is almost completely open, with crisscrossing straps.

_Hey youngblood_

_Doesn’t it feel like our time is running out?_

She rips her pony tail out, letting her hair fall freely, and she does a few step sequences that Mila helped her choreograph.

_I’m gonna change you, like a remix_

_Then I’ll raise you, like a phoenix_

She throws in a few ballet elements, but otherwise makes the biggest show she can of being overtly and unapologetically feminine.

She’s wearing a sparkly dress and red lipstick, so she hopes that sends a pretty clear message, but just in case…

She strikes her final pose with a wink and a kiss blown to where Otabek said he would be standing.

She smooths a hand through her hair, a bit wild after the jumps and spins since it was just loose.

Skating off to the side, she listens to the crowd, wondering what they’re saying, what they’re thinking.

Otabek is waiting for her off-ice, and they hug tightly.

“That’s one hell of a dress,” he tells her, dumbstruck. “Like, you told me about it, but actually seeing it… holy shit.”

She laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Don’t my legs look amazing?”

“I want to make out with you so bad right now,” Beka whispers.

“Let me go talk to some reporters, and then I will take you up on that,” Nastya says.

Viktor whistles at her as she walks past, and she flips him the bird.

Yuuri touches her shoulder and tells her she looks beautiful.

Key jogs up to her, smiling broadly. “That was the most _dramatic_ coming out I’ve ever witnessed. Thank you: it was incredible.”

“I aim to please,” Nastya laughs.

Finally, she approaches the press, swarming to figure out what the _hell_ they just witnessed.

Nastya smirks: _JJ who?_

“Yuri! Yuri! Mr! Plisetsky!” Various voices cry, clamoring for her attention.

“One at a time,” Anna Filatova says, having seemingly materialized next to Nastya, ready to handle the mob should Nastya need assistance.

Anna indicates a reporter, who looks thrilled to have been chosen first. “Yuri Plisetsky, what kind of statement were you trying to make with this Exhibition Skate?”

“My statement, for now, is this: My name is Anastasiya Nikolaevna Plisetskaya, and I’ll see you all at the banquet.”

The reporters yell after her so many questions that she can’t even decipher any of them.  She throws her head back and laughs, but doesn’t respond. She leaves the crowd of reporters and press to find Yakov, and they head to the hotel for some rest before the banquet that evening.

She takes a shower, and then texts Otabek. He’s still in shock over the skating dress, it seems, because he keeps mentioning it.

              From: **Beka**

Hang on to that dress ok? I want to see you wear it again some time

              From: **Nastya**

Beka omg I’m not gonna like. Go out in public in it. It’s a skating costume, it barely covers my ass

              From: **Beka**

Exactly

              From: **Beka**

I’m so sorry that was … inappropriate

              From: **Nastya**

LMFAO Beka omg I love you

              From: **Nastya**

Maybe I’ll wear it in the bedroom

 

From: **Beka**

Nastya, babe, you’re killing me

              From: **Nastya**

Just wait til you see what I’m wearing to the banquet

              From: **Nastya**

Not sure it’s as high on the sexy meter, but I’m gonna look hot as hell so brace yourself, Altin

 

Nastya hears her phone buzzing with more messages from her boyfriend, but she ignores them in favor of getting ready.

It seems like her hair takes longer than usual, but maybe that’s just because she’s so concerned with everything looking _perfect_ tonight.

She tries her hair in a French braid and ties the loose ends up in a chignon, but she’s not sure if she likes it. She takes it down, tries a couple different ideas, before yanking it all apart and turning to Pinterest.

She scrolls for a while, not finding anything that catches her eye, until she sees it: a loose crown braid with a few strategic pieces pulled out. Damn, she hopes Mila brought a curling iron.

              From: **Nastya**

Yo Baba tell me you brought a curling iron

              From: **Baba**

Uh… let me ask Sara?

              From: **Baba**

              She has one! What’s your room number, I’ll send her over

Nastya sends her room number, and a few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.

“Hey, Mila said you needed a curling iron?” Sara says, holding up the iron.

“Yeah, I wanted to do something a little more sophisticated, and my hair is straight as straw.”

“So is mine,” Sara laughs. “Have you curled your hair before, or do you want me to help you?”

“I’ve seen Mila curl her hair…”

“Let me give you a quick tutorial then,” Sara says, and she demonstrates how much hair to take at a time, how long to hold it, and how to get the iron out without pulling your hair out.

Nastya thinks she’s got the hang of it, but she also doesn’t want to mess up her hair for the banquet, so she just lets Sara do the rest of it, too.

Then she puts the braid in, pulling it apart here and there so it’s big and loose like the photo she found.

“You’re really good at braiding,” Sara remarks. “Like, I can do a regular braid and a very messy French braid. But you just did a rope crown braid in like, no time.”

Nastya smirks. “You do realize that I braid my hair like, every day? I have a lot of practice. I also watched a _lot_ of tutorials when my hair got long enough to try the cool shit.”

“It’s impressive.”

“Do you want me to braid your hair for the banquet?” Nastya offers. “I mean, you curled mine; I could braid yours, if you want. Like, to pay you back, or whatever.”

Sara’s whole face lights up. “Oh my gosh, would you? That would be amazing!”

“Yeah, sure. What do you want?”

They browse for pictures until something catches Sara’s eye: a waterfall braid. “Can you do that? It’s not too hard?”

“Nah, that’s easy,” Nastya says, and she sits Sara down on the bed and gets to work.

A few minutes later, Sara’s dark brown hair is done in a neat waterfall braid, and she’s ecstatic.

“Can we take a selfie together? I’ll wait to post it til after the banquet,” Sara promises.

“Sure. I’m gonna update my Instagram handle, so make sure you tag the right person.”

They take a couple pictures, one more serious and one silly, and then Sara leaves to finish getting ready.

 Nastya does her makeup, silver and shimmery and light to match her dress. She does some of her best contouring work, if she does say so herself.

She rolls on a pair of sheer hose, careful to not catch it on anything and put a run in them before the evening’s even begun.

She wrestles her bra on, a simple white satin that she bought specially for the banquet (instead of her usual leopard print) because she doesn’t want it to show through or something. That’s definitely a look, but not what she’s going for tonight.

Finally, she puts her dress on, thankful that the zipper is on the side and not up the back, so she doesn’t need help getting in and out of it.

She slips her shoes on, a pair of dove grey kitten heels with a little strap around the ankle.

As a finishing touch, she puts her gold medal on.

Nastya gives herself one last look over in the mirror and thinks: _flawless_.

 

When Nastya, Yakov, and Anna get to the banquet venue, Yakov and Anna go in first. Nastya waits outside for Otabek to come get her, so they can walk in together. (And also a little because she’s certain that her boyfriend is going to lose his shit seeing her all dressed up like this, so he’ll have a moment to collect himself.)

Otabek comes out, looking stunning in his suit and peach colored tie that Nastya had given him.

(“Just wear it, okay?” Nastya had insisted. “You’ll see why.”)

She steps out of the car, jacket wrapped tight around her chest, but Beka can see the skirt of the dress and he smiles.

“So that’s why you made me wear this tie,” he says. “So we would match.”

“Yup,” she says, smiling. There’s no press outside, so she draws Otabek in and kisses him quickly on the lips. “Do you want to see the whole dress before we go inside, or do you want to be surprised?”

“Show me now, so I don’t faint in front of all those cameras when I see how gorgeous you look.”

“You kiss-ass,” Nastya laughs, but she opens up her jacket and reveals the dress: grey lace adorns the bodice and forms little cap sleeves, and then it opens up into a full peach colored skirt that goes to her knees.

As predicted, Otabek’s jaw drops. “Nastya, oh my god, you look stunning. Beautiful. I—I don’t even know what to say.”

“There’s no way someone could misgender me looking like this, right?”

“If they do I will personally throw champagne in their face,” Otabek says. “Wow. Okay. Deep breaths. Are you ready to go in?”

“Yeah, I’m freezing,” Nastya says, wrapping her coat back around her.

They walk in, the staff greets them and takes their jackets, and then they walk into the hall.

As soon as they’re through the doors, it’s like blood in the water for the reporters.

“One at a time, _please_ ,” Anna Filatova says, again materializing out of nowhere.

“What did you mean at the Exhibition skate when you said your name was Anastasiya?” the reporter asks.

“Well, I meant that my name is Anastasiya. I don’t think that’s a very tough one to figure out.”

“Do you mean that you’ve actually changed your name?” another reporter else asks.

“Yes, my name is now legally, as of about five days ago, Anastasiya Nikolaevna Plisetskaya. I’d um, I’d like to make a full statement now, and then if you have further questions, you can send them to my agent, Anna Filatova, and I will respond after the banquet. I’d like to enjoy my win tonight.”

Nastya looks at Anna, who gives her a reassuring nod, and Otabek squeezes her shoulder.

She takes a deep breath, and begins her planned statement.

“First, I would like to thank my friends and family who have been with me for this journey; I couldn’t have done this without your love and support. As I’ve said, my name is now Anastasiya Plisetskaya, and I am… a girl. I’ve struggled with my identity for a long time, but I’ve decided it’s time for me to stop trying to live as someone I am not. I’ve been out to close friends and family for quite some time now, and with their guidance I decided that I would make my announcement after this year’s GPF.

“I will continue to compete in the men’s division, as both the RSF and ISU have agreed that my particular body type would be an unfair advantage over my cis peers. I ask that, despite being in the men’s division, you refer to me as a woman, using the appropriate pronouns and gendering in your language that you would for any other woman.

“I am very grateful to all of my sponsors and supporters, and hope that you continue to cheer for me as I embark on this next chapter of my career, as the truest version of myself. Thank you.”

 “Anastasiya-san,” a familiar voice calls. She recognizes him as the Japanese reporter that follows Yuuri most of the time. “Morooka Hisashi. I just have one question for you, if I may.”

“Go ahead,” Nastya says, stopping Anna from cutting him off.

“What does the future hold for you?”

Nastya smiles, and grabs hold of Otabek’s hand. “Kicking ass on the ice with my boyfriend, Otabek Altin, just like we did tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exhibition dress reference: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/1c/f7/f8/1cf7f85c9887e24b258857276806fe8b--figure-skating-dresses-ice-skating.jpg (but fades to red instead of pink, slightly brighter in general)  
> Exhibition song: Yeah, it’s fuckin’ Phoenix by Fall Out Boy, fight me: https://youtu.be/5hDZbroaQDc  
> Inspo for nastya’s gpf banquet dress: http://78.media.tumblr.com/36dcb9755d2b88e519205921b520d9ef/tumblr_njnvte9GmG1t08imeo6_1280.jpg

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ! If you enjoyed, please take a moment to leave kudos or a comment -- they mean the world to me !  
> find me on tumblr as ricekrispyjoints, if you're into that kind of thing


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